


Weightless

by uena



Series: Lovers in Arms [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftercare, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Humor, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Milady is gone and her necklace with her, and Athos doesn't know what to do with himself. Porthos merely wants to help. (Aramis does not need very long to catch on to how exactly Porthos is helping Athos.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hope_calaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_calaris/gifts).
  * Translation into Français available: [À la dérive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4376591) by [LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie/pseuds/LeRoyaumeSousLaPluie)



The weight around his neck is gone.

It doesn’t pull him down anymore, doesn’t cut into his flesh and remind him of what he had. He feels light without it, disconnected and floating, his feet so far off the ground it terrifies him.

He looks down at where his boots are caked in mud, and it’s curious how they don’t feel attached to him at all. He let her go, and most of himself with her; and now he doesn’t know what to do, hasn’t even the old guilt to hang on to.

The weight around his neck is gone.

She took it with her, took even the faintest memory of her touch. He has already forgotten her taste, the softness of her body, the startling strength of her hands. He’ll never know again how it feels to be close to her, held up in her arms, pushed down at her feet.

So many years of missing her, and now he’s sent her away, sent away his sweetest, darkest memories, sent away the part of him that knew how to trust and give himself over to pleasure.

He breathes in and breathes out, and it’s not painful. His chest feels hollow, like an empty cage, bereft of the shadows that used to fill it, desperate to hold something, _anything_. But there’s just nothing there.

He turns automatically, his body going through the old, familiar motions despite the terror in his heart, despite his head floating so far off the ground it might as well be a star, dying far away somewhere up in the heavens.

His body knows what he has to do to make it stop – to stop his world from spinning, stop it twisting away from him.

He’ll drench the emptiness in wine, soak it until it’s too heavy to move, too blurry to do anything but lie down and wait for the sun to come up and bring a new kind of pain with it.

That pain he at least knows how to deal with.

He hears heavy steps behind him, familiar and trusted, and a smile tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t know how to. It’s the hand on his neck that stops him, a touch that’s uncompromising despite its gentleness. “And where do you think you’re goin'?”

Porthos sounds gruff, like he always does when he doesn’t want to show that he cares, and his touch feels rough on his naked skin, callused fingertips stroking over his neck, over his pulse point.

He swallows against the sudden feverish heat rising in his chest. “The tavern.”

Porthos moves, then, moves around him and blocks his way, shoulders squared and jaw set. Athos knows this look, knows that if he glances down at Porthos’ free hand he’ll find it balled into a fist, white-knuckled and angry.

“This doesn’t please you?” he asks softly.

The hand at his neck grips tighter at the question, and the heat moves out of his chest and lower. For a second or two he’s so confused by this that he almost misses Porthos’ answering growl. “Alone?”

He takes a deep breath and tries to shrug it off – the hand as much as the confusion it brought with it, but Porthos doesn’t budge. “You’re welcome to join me.”

He looks around to include d’Artagnan and Aramis in this invitation, but they’re gone. He must have missed them taking their leave of him.

When he looks back around and at Porthos, he’s studying him from below knitted brows, eyes dark and disgruntled. “We have a reason to be celebratin', yeah?”

Athos tries to smile at him. “Don’t we always?”

The sally makes Porthos grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re standing alone in the dusky alley, almost chest to chest, and Porthos’ hand is still on his neck, warm and heavy, preventing him from washing away.

“Hell, we’re still alive. That’s reason enough most of the time,” Porthos says quietly. His voice sounds off, as if being alive may be a sufficient excuse for drinking on any other day but this. As if he’d prefer to stay sober for once.

“Come on then,” he rumbles, just when the silence threatens to stretch out between them and push them apart. He’s grinning again, tugging at Athos as he always does, setting him back into motion. “I’ll buy you a bottle.”

They make their way down to the tavern in companionable silence, and not once does Porthos’ hand leave Athos’ shoulders, not once does he move so far from him as to break the contact and leave him to drift away.

Athos picks the darkest corner in the tavern, and Porthos lets him, shouts for a bottle of wine and gracelessly falls down onto the chair next to Athos. Athos feels his gaze on him, heavy enough to hold him in place although they’re not touching any more. “You gonna explain what happened between you and that Lady of yours?”

Athos freezes and swallows, stares at him with wide eyes that betray his discomfort, the rising panic in his chest. He’s too sober for this. Porthos grunts and takes pity on him, as he so often does. “Keep your secrets.”

The arrival of the bar maid accompanied by two glasses and a bottle of cheap wine relieves Athos of the need to say anything. He watches Porthos fill their glasses in silence, drinks as soon as his glass is relinquished to him.

He doesn’t even taste the alcohol anymore – hasn’t done so since his first foray into the unsophisticated beverages Paris is so richly blessed with. The time when he drank for pleasure is long gone, and he almost prefers the way the wine tastes like vinegar on his tongue. At least it’s being honest about what it is – a poison that’ll slowly corrupt his wits as well as his body.

Porthos watches him down his first glass and diligently refills it before he himself starts drinking. Athos knows what he’s doing, knows that Porthos will stay sober enough to bring him home when he’ll be too drunk to accomplish that task by himself.

The shame accompanying this thought is strong, but never strong enough to stop him from drinking. Sometimes it makes him down the wine all the faster.

They don’t talk. They sit in their corner, shrouded in shadows, listen to the bustle surrounding them, silent and brooding. Porthos has his shoulders pulled up, arms crossed over his chest, and his hat is laying on the table in front of him. He doesn’t watch Athos drink, instead stares out into the room, and Athos catches himself studying his profile, fixating on the scar over his eye.

He downs another glass, welcomes how the wine warms him from inside, fills up his hollow bones and stuffs his gut with liquid weight. He’s quick to empty the bottle, raises his arm to call for another one – and Porthos grabs his wrist. “No.”

Athos lowers his arm, bemused. That’s not normally how this goes. Porthos learned early on not to interfere, to let him drink until he has his fill. Because as drunk as he may be, as pathetic as he may become, Athos will not allow any man trying to stop him – not even a friend as dear as Porthos.

“Not today,” Porthos says, and his eyes stay on Athos’, uncompromising, but not angry. There’s none of the usual heat in his gaze, no force, no violence. “I know you haven’t had enough, but please let me take you home?”

He’s almost whispering the words, soft and hopeful, and for the first time since they know each other, for the first time since Porthos started looking out for him on and off the battlefield – for the first time since he started bringing him home after another night of drunken oblivion, Athos doesn’t find it in himself to deny him. He doesn’t fight against the hold Porthos has on his wrist, hangs his head and nods, doesn’t look up when he hears Porthos take a surprised breath.

He’s too pre-occupied with his own confusion, with the fact that all it took was one word from Porthos to stop him from drinking when any number of words, pleaded or yelled in his face, do not stop him on any other day. He remembers being like that, remembers yielding, being pliant and submissive to something other than the alcohol.

He doesn’t want to remember that. Doesn’t allow the memories in.

Instead he lets himself be dragged from his chair and onto his feet. He’s unsteady, but not as much as he could be. Porthos still puts his arm around his shoulders and steers him bodily out of the tavern and into the street.

Once the cold night air hits his lungs he feels more drunk than he ever thought possible after one meagre bottle of wine. Porthos’ body is a persistent line of heat all down his right side, powerful and steady, and Athos doesn’t even notice how he grabs onto him, digs his fingers into the leather covering Porthos’ shoulder, afraid he might fall if he lets go.

He isn’t usually afraid of falling, is usually too drunk to care or even notice the pain. Now he notices everything.

He notices the cold sharpness in the air, the smell of mud and filth and cheap perfume, notices Porthos’ muscles shifting against him as he steers him down the street and towards his lodgings. He’s aware of his own body’s weakness, his uncoordinated stumbling and the ease with which Porthos holds him upright.

He’s always known Porthos to be strong – would have to be blind to miss it – but the only personal experience he’s had with this strength so far was when they were sparring, or when he was hurt after a battle, and Porthos carried him to safety. He never had the time to think about how it _felt_.

“Almost there,” Porthos’ voice cuts into his train of thought, his breath ghosting hot over Athos’ ear.

Athos has no idea what to say to that, so he keeps quiet, keeps his eyes half closed and tries to ignore how helpless he is, trapped in his body, dependent on Porthos’ strength.

He almost manages it, but then they arrive at his lodgings and Porthos has to carry him up the stairs, both of his arms holding Athos safe against his chest, and Athos remembers this feeling, remembers feeling drunk with something that wasn’t wine, but just as dangerous, something that destroyed him from the inside out, just as the alcohol does.

He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, doesn’t dare open them to look at Porthos. He had no idea how thoroughly she’s destroyed him, how deeply she reached into him and pulled his sins to the surface – that she twisted him so far that he now feels the echoes of desire being close to another man, close to a friend.

“Porthos,” he slurs, almost choking on the shame, but Porthos shushes him, is too preoccupied with manoeuvring them through the door. His hand is on Athos’ neck again, fingers in his hair, gentle and protective, the other on Athos’ hip, arm slung tight around him.

It’s too tight, almost crushing him, and Athos feels so utterly out of control that it takes his breath away.

“Almost there my friend,” Porthos tells him, but Athos doesn’t hear. There’s just enough alcohol in his system to make him feel _warm_ , hazy and sloppy – just like the first night it happened, when he’d had too much wine for dinner, and she was so beautiful, took his hand and led him to bed, used the silk shawl he’d brought her from Paris.

He bites his lip and tries to suppress the memory, but that only makes him more aware of Porthos’ presence, of how close they are to the bed now, and that he’s clinging to him, that his fingers are clawing at his uniform, desperate for contact. “Porthos …”

“Here we are,” Porthos murmurs, his voice low and rumbling, and pushes Athos down on the bed. It’s like a flash of heat, sudden arousal mingles with his shame, and Athos escapes a strangled moan before he can stop himself.

Porthos immediately goes down on one knee in front of him. “Are you hurt?”

Athos shakes his head and bites his lip harder. He feels so hot, his whole body’s tingling with the old yearning to give himself up and over to someone else.

“Did she cut you?” Porthos asks, just as persistent as he always is when worried about his friends’ health, and his hands come to rest on Athos’ upper arms. “Show me.”

“She did not,” Athos forces out, almost shivering with the need to be touched in a far more forceful manner than Porthos is offering him. “I’m fine.”

Porthos just grunts, and starts undoing the buttons of Athos’ uniform jacket, pushes it off his shoulders. “Where?” he asks again.

“She did – she did not hurt me,” Athos whispers, too desperate to raise his voice. Porthos’ brows draw together and he scowls, pushes his hands into Athos’ shirt to draw it to the sides, starts pushing it up to reveal Athos’ stomach when his search remains fruitless.

Athos tries to stop him, and suddenly Porthos has hold of both of his wrists, almost crushes them in an iron-tight grip. “Hold. Still.”

Athos gasps, and another moan escapes, and Porthos’ brows draw closer together. Athos can taste his heartbeat in his throat. He starts to feel numb, doesn’t try to get loose anymore, holds still when Porthos lets go of his wrists.

He doesn’t fight it when Porthos removes his uniform jacket, and then his shirt; he just shivers in the cold air of his room – shivers under the hot hands ghosting over his skin, searching for an injury that isn’t there.

He allows Porthos to lift his arms, to twist and turn him around to look at his back. His breath hitches when Porthos touches him there, when his fingertips drag along an old scar, long since healed.

“Where?” he hears him whisper, and then Porthos turns him around again, goes down on his knees once more. “Tell me where she cut you, Athos.”

Athos looks at him, drunk with his own helplessness. “I promise you, she did not hurt me.”

He sees the anger flash in Porthos’ eyes, the hurt at being lied to when all he wants to do is help; and when Porthos pushes him on his back and starts to untie his trousers, Athos lets him, because that’s the only way he knows how to react – how she taught him to behave.

It always felt so good.

He doesn’t move when Porthos stops halfway to rid him of his boots first, just lies still and closes his eyes, waits for Porthos to realize what is happening, and can’t bring himself to care.

Maybe Porthos will hit him.

He’s so much stronger than she ever was.

Porthos is unbearably gentle while he rids Athos of his trousers, still mindful of an injury that just doesn’t exist. He pulls them down and off, discards them to the side, and since he’s still on his knees in front of Athos it can’t be long now until he –

Porthos chuckles. “That’s how it is, eh?”

Athos blinks his eyes open, tries to focus. Porthos is grinning at him, winks when he catches him staring. “You want me to help you with this?”

He gestures towards the prominent bulge in Athos’ undergarments, and Athos feels like his throat is closing up on him. “No!”

Porthos lifts both hands in a placating gesture and stands up. “Just offerin'. I’ll leave you alone to deal with things yourself, then.”

He steps away from the bed, taking his warmth with him, and it’s like drowning, ice cold water all around Athos, pulling him down. Porthos must see it in his face, for he stops in his tracks and comes back, comes close again, his own face twisted into a grimace of worry. “What is it? You’re not angry, are you?”

Athos doesn’t know what to tell him, is only aware of the desire to comply to Porthos’ wishes, doesn’t want to be left alone – not while he’s like this, she never left him alone then, only afterwards once they were finished, and he –

“Athos,” Porthos says, voice strangely gentle. “You changed your mind?”

Athos stares up at him, stares up at the face of his friend, so familiar by now, and sees the fire kindle in Porthos’ eyes. “If you want me,” he whispers, doesn’t recognize his own voice, “you can have me.”

Just saying the words drags him deeper into the old helplessness, makes him feel vulnerable and defenceless, makes him feel hot and cold all over.

Porthos tilts his head, doesn’t look gratified as much as confused, but the heat in his gaze is unmistakeable. Athos wishes he could move, wishes he’d dare to reach out and pull him closer, but that is something he never was able to do.

He needed her to come to him, to take control and show him what to do, tell him how to behave, how to touch her.

“I can have you?” Porthos echoes, voice soft, but not disbelieving, and Athos bites his lip and nods. If he just gives in, then maybe Porthos will give him what he needs.

For now, it’s almost enough that he comes closer still, that he sits down on the bed beside him, radiating heat, looking down at him with intent in his dark eyes.

Knowing that Porthos is stronger than him, that he could overpower him, hold him down and force him to do as he’s told – it never mattered to Athos as it matters now, when all he can think about is how it would feel like if Porthos were on top of him, trapping him.

And then Athos becomes aware of what’s happening: that he’s about to succumb once more – to a man this time – and it doesn’t matter that Porthos is his friend, and that he trusts him, because he trusted her as well and, she –

“What’s goin' on?” Porthos’ voice cuts into his frazzled mind, gentle and worried. “You changed your mind again?”

And then he touches him.

It’s a timid touch, careful and hesitant, but Porthos’ hand feels scathingly hot on Athos’ cold skin, and he sobs and rolls onto his side, pushes his face into Porthos’ hip, like a dog begging for scraps.

Porthos doesn’t budge, doesn’t shrink away from him. He stays right where he is, merely twists around and starts to pet Athos’ head – treats him like the dog Athos feels he has become.

It’s not enough, even if the degradation is exactly what Athos thinks he deserves, and he whines, can’t bring himself to beg properly, has tried so hard to train himself out of that habit. He almost starts crying with relief when Porthos’ touch turns firmer, when he grips his hair and rolls him onto his back.

He’s already breathing hard, is already leaking, cock heavy between his thighs, and he spreads them automatically, just like she always wanted him to. Porthos takes one look, and then he lies down next to him and moves closer, warm and gentle. “I take that as an invitation, yeah?”

Athos just nods, feels as if he might break if he tries to open his mouth and speak.

“Good,” Porthos whispers, reaches out and slowly unlaces Athos’ undergarments, reaches inside once they’re open, takes him in hand.

Athos’ breath gets locked in his throat and he moans, closes his eyes and pushes up into the touch. It’s been so long since anyone touched him, so long since he felt anything even resembling this kind of mind-numbing lust.

It’s overwhelming, Porthos’ hand too hot and too rough, and he loves it, spreads his legs even wider, shameless and wanton. Porthos’ grip on him is firm and sure, and he slowly moves his hand up and down, rubs his thumb over the head to spread the pre-come.

Athos tries to keep himself still, tries not to move, but he can’t, ruts up against Porthos’ touch, helpless against his body’s need. When he looks at Porthos’ face, he’s smiling, absent-minded and pleased, and Athos feels a rush of elation – she’d only smile like that if he’d been especially good for her.

When Porthos catches him staring he only smiles wider, warm and joyful, and Athos automatically licks his lips and raises his head, hopes against hope for the ultimate reward.

Porthos doesn’t even hesitate, kisses him immediately, open and affectionate as always. Not only has Athos no idea what to do with that, it overwhelms him so much that he cannot hold back a moan, feels heat pooling in his gut and spreading out into his limbs, making him feel light-headed.

Porthos is giving him too much all at once, offers rewards too freely, without demanding anything for himself, and although Athos is afraid what will happen if he gives in too soon, it’s just too much.

He spills, comes in hot spurts all over his belly and chest, and Porthos keeps kissing him through it, hums, decidedly pleased, keeps stroking him until he is spent.

When he takes his hand away, Athos whines. He is used to being left alone afterwards, but still hopes that he won’t be, and –

“Shht,” Porthos shushes him, brushes a kiss to his forehead. “I’m just lookin’ for somethin’ to clean you up.”

Athos blinks up at him and then down at his release, reaches out to drag his fingers through the cooling mess – lifts them up to his mouth, licks them clean. It’s nothing he’s never done before, and as long as Porthos doesn’t leave his side he’s prepared to do pretty much anything he asks of him.

“That’s … not quite what I had in mind,” Porthos mumbles, but he doesn’t sound angry, so Athos resumes his task until it is finished, thoroughly cleans himself up, only dares to look at Porthos once he’s done.

The gaze he encounters is unfamiliar to him, assessing but fond, and when he bites his lip in confusion, Porthos leans in to kiss him again. “Should’ve expected that from you,” he whispers. “Always knew still waters run the deepest.”

He strokes his hand over Athos’ chest and belly, and Athos sighs and relaxes. Porthos won’t leave him. He was good.

But then Porthos moves away and gets up, and Athos feels like the world is dropping out from under him. He sits up, and he doesn’t know what to say – how to ask for what he wants.

She taught him so much, but she never taught him that.

“I’ll stay for the night if it’s all the same to you,” Porthos rumbles, and only then does Athos realize that he’s undressing, taking off his uniform, stripping out of his shirt. He also realizes that Porthos is hard inside his undergarments, and as soon as he’s close enough to the bed he grabs him by the hips, pulls him close and leans his forehead against his stomach, takes a deep breath.

Porthos laughs, startled but pleased, and rakes his fingers through Athos’ hair. “Let me lie down?”

Athos nods and scoots backwards, makes space on the bed. It’s a tight fit, but Porthos manages, takes Athos into his arms and pulls the blanket over them, hugs Athos to his chest. “You should've said that you were cold,” he scolds, strokes his hands over Athos’ cold skin.

“What … what about you?” Athos asks, meaning the persistent heat pressing up against his groin, and Porthos chuckles and brushes another kiss to Athos’ forehead, while Athos tries to comprehend where he found the voice to speak up and ask this question. Being treated like this makes him feel as if he’s floating in warm water, loved and protected, and he lifts his face, hopes for a proper kiss. He gets it, moans when Porthos kisses him deep and thorough.

“I can sleep like this if I have to,” Porthos whispers against his lips. “Or does it bother you?”

“No,” Athos whispers back, “it does not bother me. But … you don’t have to sleep like this. I could –“ He stops. It is not supposed to be this way. He is supposed to wait for directions, to do as he’s told.

“You offerin’ to suck me off?” Porthos’ rough voice cuts into his buzzing thoughts, and Athos stills.

“I never have,” he admits, and Porthos chuckles again, strokes his hands up and down the warming skin of his back.

“You wanna learn? Or you can just use your hand – I don’t mind either way.”

Learn.

Does he want to learn.

That was always how she introduced new _ideas_ into their bedroom, was the only question she ever asked; and once he’d said yes –because he’d always say yes – she’d teach him. Only when she brought the riding whip did he ever consider refusing her. But he didn’t. He never said no to her.

“I want to learn,” he hears himself say now, and part of him is terrified to go down this path again. The rest of him feels nothing but elation at finally being taken in hand and controlled.

“You do, eh?” Porthos smirks and playfully pinches his ass, and Athos moans and nods his head.

“Yes. Please … please teach me.”

When Athos opens his eyes, Porthos is staring at him, his own dark eyes wide and _knowing_ , comprehension written all over his features. Athos blinks at him, and Porthos mouth twists into a lopsided smile, fond and helpless. “Such deep waters …”

He lifts his hand out of the blanket to cup Athos’ cheek, lets his thumb stroke along his jaw-line. “It’s been a while since I taught anyone anythin' – you sure you wanna trust me with this?”

“Yes,” Athos says again, because he may be frightened, but he does trust Porthos with his life. “I’m sure.”

“Good.” Porthos grins at him, wide and genuine, rewards him with another kiss. “You stay under the blanket, okay? Just sit at the edge of the bed.”

He lets go of Athos then, moves away and out from below the blanket to stand up, and Athos immediately moves with him, reaches out his hands, doesn’t want to lose the contact.

Porthos smiles down at him and takes them into his, places them on his hips. “If I’d known you’d be up for this we could’ve saved ourselves some time.” He pulls the blanket up and securely over Athos’ shoulders before he unlaces his undergarments, and his grin widens. “But this way we got some cuddlin’ in – I’m always for that.”

Athos holds on to him, presses his fingers into his hips, skin warm beneath his hands. He’s not used to touching a man, has never even thought about it despite being aware of what’s going on between most soldiers in camp. After he’d lost her, he’d decided to never let himself have something like this again – a physical connection, primal and relieving. He doesn’t deserve it.

He surely doesn’t deserve Porthos who’s smiling down at him so fondly now, reaches out to cup his face, and caresses him like a lover. “You ready?”

He’s not, and he’ll never be, but he needs this so much that he can’t help himself. So he nods, lets his lids droop and licks his lips, focuses his gaze on Porthos’ groin.

It feels strange when Porthos lets his undergarments drop to the floor to reveal his arousal. Athos neither shrinks from the sight nor does he experience any kind of revulsion. Instead he suffers a sudden spike of lust deep in his gut, raw and untamed, and he leans forward, lips parted.

“Mind your teeth,” is all Porthos has to say to that as he takes himself in hand and holds himself steady for Athos to take into his mouth. As if this were normal. As if Athos degrading himself in such a manner was nothing to comment on.

Maybe it isn’t.

He’s done much worse, to be sure. Done much worse and loved every second of it.

“Take just the head in – get used to it,” Porthos murmurs above him, voice rough with guarded arousal, and Athos is so relieved to receive a proper command that he obeys immediately.

He hears Porthos swear under his breath, but that almost gets drowned out by the unfamiliar sensation of heat inside his mouth, heavy on his tongue, by the taste and smell of Porthos, flaring up his nostrils. It’s overwhelming and frightening and utterly perfect, and Athos closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Use your tongue,” he hears Porthos’ voice from somewhere high above him. Again he obeys, suckles and licks and holds on to Porthos’ hips with both hands, still afraid he might go and leave him alone if he doesn’t perform to his satisfaction.

But then there’s a hand in his hair, gentle and comforting, and he leans into the touch and lets himself fall, gives in to the pleasure of being used.

Porthos gives him a few minutes to get accustomed to having him inside his mouth, lets him taste and explore him with his tongue; then he grips his hair a bit tighter. “Can you open up a little wider for me?”

It’s not a proper command, but Athos struggles to obey nevertheless, tries to relax his jaw and allow Porthos to push in a little deeper, use him a little rougher.

But he’s never done this before, has never been used in this way, although he’s so familiar with almost every other form of sexual deviance; and he chokes, feels the shock of tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

Porthos immediately tries to pull back, and he grips him tighter, so afraid to fail that he’d rather choke himself than let go. He forces his eyes shut and tries to ignore the bright spots dancing in front of his lids, tries to breathe and just do as he’s told.

“Hey,” he hears Porthos’ voice, surprisingly gentle, utterly devoid of anger, “relax, will ya? You’re doin’ fine.” Athos’ eyes fall open in astonishment and he blinks up at Porthos’ smiling face. “You’re doin’ good – your mouth feels just perfect.”

He strokes his hand over Athos’ cheek, lets his thumb brush over his jaw. “All you need to do is relax a little. Use your hands. You won’t be able to fit all of me into your mouth. Get creative. You’re always good at that.”

Being praised when he hasn’t even done anything to deserve it yet makes Athos feel off kilter, unbalanced and reeling, and he stares up at Porthos, unable to form a clear thought.

“Come here, I’ll help you,” Porthos says after a few terrible seconds of silence, brushes his fingers through Athos’ hair. “Open up.”

It’s a clear command, so Athos obeys although he doesn’t want to, and Porthos pulls back, takes his heat, his taste and his smell away. Athos actually misses it, misses the connection although he shouldn’t, and he cannot keep the whimper in that betrays his distress.

“Shht, it’s alright,” Porthos rumbles, puts his left hand over Athos’ right and takes it into his, pulls it off his hip and puts it around his hard cock instead. It feels heavy in Athos’ hand, pulses hot between his fingers, and he automatically leans in again, lips already parted.

“I want you to lick along the underside,” Porthos says, voice rough, deeper than before. “Can you do that for me?”

Athos nods and immediately executes his task, shivering with sudden arousal at being of use. It’s a vicious circle, always has been. Arousal would lead to shame and that to even sharper arousal, until his body was so confused, so desperate to be shamed that he’d do anything, _anything_.

He licks a wet stripe along Porthos’ cock, again and again, moves his hand up and down his hard length and tries to ignore that he’s himself almost returned to firmness.

“That’s really good,” Porthos says above him, and Athos can feel him twitch between his fingers. “Now lick just the tip, let your tongue circle around …”

Athos moans and complies, is able to let his mind drift now that he feels secure in what he does, closes his eyes once more.

“Yeah,” Porthos whispers, and it occurs to Athos how still he keeps himself, that he doesn’t even try to push forward and into his mouth. “Yeah, just like that. You’re doin’ so well.”

The moan resulting from those words of praise is muffled by the cock in his mouth, and Athos automatically tries to take him deeper, is finally able to relax his jaw.

“There you go,” Porthos groans. “Look at you, openin’ up so good for me.”

Athos moans once more, lets the praise wash over him, and does what Porthos taught him – uses his hand and his tongue, licks and sucks, and doesn’t even try to fight his own arousal. It feels so good, suddenly, to suck cock; and he knows he’ll love it even more once he’s practised enough so Porthos can use him properly, can be forceful and fuck his mouth each and every way he pleases.

It’s shameful how his body reacts to the idea, how the heat coils in his belly and spirals out into his groin, how it makes him groan and swallow around the cock in his mouth.

He feels Porthos’ hand stroke through his hair, gentle and affectionate, and it reminds him of how it was in the beginning, when he trusted so easily just because her touch was soft and her body was willing.

He loved her so much.

But Porthos’ touch is different from hers; it’s firmer, more powerful, yet never hurting – controlling but not brutal. He keeps telling him that he’s doing good, voice rough with arousal, keeps stroking through his hair, and Athos finds it easy to succumb to him, finds himself eager to please and service him.

He doesn’t try to be silent any more, forgets to be ashamed by his body’s reaction. He’s moaning unrestrained, one hand around Porthos’ cock and the other on his hip, moves his head steadily back and forth, saliva dripping off his chin.

He’s feeling hot all over.

And then Porthos’ hand grips his hair a little tighter, and that makes it even better; and he whines when Porthos pushes him off, forces him backwards. He doesn’t want to stop.

He opens his eyes, just in time to watch Porthos come, and he’s mesmerized, had no idea what the sight would do to him – Porthos spilling all over his hand, coating his dark skin, face and chest flushed, and he’s grinning, oh God, he’s grinning, wide and blissed-out, looking so content it makes Athos’ dick twitch, makes him want to swallow it all down.

He whines again, needy and desperate, and Porthos lets him lean back in, lets him lick him clean while murmuring praise, stroking his hair – is finally offering rewards he actually deserves, rewards he’s allowed to accept.

“You alright?” he asks him after a while, when Athos won’t move away, won’t stop licking and nuzzling him. Athos takes a deep breath and looks up at him, and Porthos grins, squats down and kisses him. “You liked that, yeah?”

Athos hums and smiles against his lips, feels grounded by Porthos’ presence, secure under his touch. Porthos chuckles when he doesn’t get an answer, and rewards him with another kiss. “Lie back down for me, will ya?”

Athos instantly moves to obey, and the blanket falls off his shoulders. Porthos stops his movement then, holds him in place with both hands on his thighs. “Looks like you really enjoyed yourself there, my friend.”

He’s gazing down at Athos’ groin, at the noticeable bulge between his legs, only half covered by his undergarments. His gaze feels hot, as if he’s touching instead of just looking, and Athos licks his lips and hangs his head in shame. “Yes.”

“There’s no reason for you to hide that from me, you hear?” Porthos puts his hand under his chin and gently tips his head back up. His gaze is earnest, with a smile lurking in the depths of his dark eyes. “No sense in denyin’ yourself the pleasure.” He grins. “Or in denyin’ me the pleasure of payin’ you back.”

With that he drops to his knees and bends over Athos’ lap, frees his cock from the fabric hiding it and swallows him down. It happens so fast that for a heartbeat or two Athos is stunned, cannot move, cannot even breathe.

But then the pleasure washes over him, and he curls forward, eyes closed and fighting for breath. Porthos’ mouth is so hot, just like the rest of him, and even now he’s gentle, careful and _tender_ , uses his tongue and his hands on Athos as if he were something breakable.

Athos doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch him, but he cannot stop himself, reaches out to bury his left in Porthos’ hair, clings to his shoulder with his right.

It’s over before he’s properly understanding what’s happening to him, the wet heat around his cock too much after so many years without any kind of physical pleasure. He gives in again, breath stuttering out of him in tandem with his release, bright lights flashing in front of his eyes.

For a moment he feels as if he’s floating, and when he comes to, Porthos has stretched him out on the bed and is pulling the blanket over them. “You really needed that, hn?” He stretches out next to him, throws one arm over Athos’ chest and pulls him close. “Come ‘ere.”

Athos comes willingly, welcomes Porthos’ warmth and pushes his face into his neck, takes a deep breath. Porthos kisses his temple, strokes his back. “Wouldn’t have taken you for a cuddler – this is a nice surprise.”

Athos feels as if he’s floating – but this time with a safe tether to earth, Porthos the securest anchor he could ever wish for. He allows himself to drift, warmth and pleasure still washing over him like the tide, and he falls asleep like this, falls asleep in Porthos’ arms, held close to his chest, warm and safe.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up feels like falling into warm snow, strange and wonderful. He’s not in any pain, not even the usual skull-splitting headache lurks in the shadows to take over his consciousness. There’s just a mild throbbing behind his left temple.

He’s warm. Comfortable. He –

He’s in bed with someone.

Someone’s in bed with him.

Athos is so unused to waking up sober that it takes him just as long to remember what happened last night as it would as if he’d been drunk. At first he keeps his eyes closed, tries to collect himself, to focus on the familiar lumpy mattress, uncomfortable as always, and on the scratchy blanket covering him – covering his nakedness.

He’s _naked_. Naked and pressed up against another man, pressed up against _Porthos_ , and he remembers now, no matter how much he wishes that he did not.

When he opens his eyes, he does so slowly, carefully, afraid of what he might see. And then he’s staring at Porthos’ sleeping face, just a few inches from his own, as the memories keep floating up, one by one, as they ride the current of his consciousness like fallen leaves would ride a stream.

He cannot even doubt that it happened, knows himself too well to doubt his memories. His body still feels too satisfied, his mind too much at peace. It’s as if he was drugged, always as if he was drugged, but the fact remains that he wasn’t. What brought him down wasn’t a drug, it wasn’t even the alcohol.

It was his own weak mind, the perverse failing of his body. He went so long without that he’d thought he’d finally shaken it, that he was free from the corruption she brought into his life.

He was able to kiss her and remain strong, was able to walk away from her and the control she used to have over him.

He never imagined it could happen with someone else – that he’d ever want that.

But, oh God, he wants it.

Even now, sober and ashamed, he wants it. Wants Porthos to fuck his mouth, to pin him down and use him, degrade him in any way he pleases … just so Porthos can hold him afterwards, like he did last night, just so he can tell him he did good, that he pleased him.

That was always what he craved most – what she’d only give to him on special occasions, more rarely the further their relationship progressed. And when she did, he held on to it for as long as he could, always so grateful when she awarded him sooner than expected.

Athos closes his eyes, squeezes them shut against his memories mingling with the present, but he cannot forget the expression on Porthos’ face, how he looks when he’s asleep, relaxed and peaceful, just as gentle as he was last night.

Athos didn’t know it could be like that.

He’s seen so many of Porthos’ expressions since they’ve become friends, has seen him angry and _furious_ , grinning and laughing with joy. He’d never expected him to be capable of such … patience. To show so much restraint and kindness when all he had to do was use his considerable strength to get what he wanted.

Athos takes a deep breath and tries to forget how it felt when Porthos touched him, how warm he was, how careful; how his hands felt like on his naked skin, and in his hair – callused and rough but never cruel.

He doesn’t understand why she couldn’t be like that. There was goodness in her, he’s sure of it. The woman he fell in love with was different from the one he shared his bed with, and he’ll never know if it was his fault. Maybe, if he’d been different – if he’d been stronger, less easy to twist around her finger, stronger of character and morals –

He’s moved closer to Porthos before he’s aware of what’s happening, has pressed his body against Porthos’ and is clinging to him, just as desperate for contact as he was last night.

He’ll never get enough of Porthos’ heat, the strength in his hands and the underlying brutality that’s always so close to the surface, but so very seldom out of control. Not once was it directed at _him_.

Porthos’ breathing interrupts for a second, and Athos knows that he’s woken him, holds his own breath, afraid what Porthos will think of him now that it’s morning and he’ll see him for what he really is in the light of a new day.

Porthos huffs.

And then his arms close around Athos, and he pulls him in, against the heat of his body, mindful of his strength, but crushing nevertheless.

Athos’ mind immediately starts drifting with bliss, and his body relaxes, forgets the fear and the shame, and surrenders. It feels so good to be held like this.

“G’mornin’,” Porthos slurs, sounds half asleep still, and he rubs his cheek against Athos’, affectionate even when half unconscious. “Ye sleep well?”

Athos has to clear his throat before he can answer. “Yes.”

Porthos blinks one eye open at that – the one with the scar. “You’re not angry at me, are ye?”

Athos doesn’t know how, but he finds back to himself enough to lift his brow at the question and drawl, “Now, why would I be angry?”

Porthos grins at him and playfully pats his ass below the blanket. “Good. I was worried.”

Athos hides his confusion behind a blank face, doesn’t understand why Porthos would worry about him being _angry_ after what happened last night. He bites his lip trying to ignore the tingling sensation chasing through his body in reaction to Porthos touching his rear, and almost flinches when Porthos speaks again. “You wanna get up or stay in bed a little longer?”

The question makes his confusion even worse. He tries to remember how to function as he did before – before Porthos took him in hand, took control and _taught_ him. He should be able to answer a simple question, at least.

But Porthos’ arms are still tight around his torso, and he doesn’t feel like he did before – he feels secure and guarded and _dependent_ , and he cannot make this decision. “What do you want to do?”

Porthos tilts his head, studies him with the same expression he did last night. Athos is afraid he actually does see him for who and what he really is. And what if he does? What if Porthos understands the true nature of his character? Would he still want to be his friend, could he still be his companion, still willing to follow the orders of a man more fit to be his dog?

“I’ll keep you in bed a little while longer then,” Porthos’ voice cuts into his fear. “We can both do with a little rest, and the Captain said not to worry about coming in today.” He sneaks a careful glace at Athos' face, one eye closed. “You don’t mind, do ye?”

“No,” Athos says, lost, but utterly honest. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

His answer makes Porthos grin, and Athos doesn’t understand how he can be like this – still the same as he always was, as if last night changed absolutely nothing, when it did, in fact, change _everything_.

“Come ‘ere,” Porthos rumbles, pulls Athos half on top of him, gently strokes his neck. “Go back to sleep. You look half dead with exhaustion.”

His thumb strokes up and down Athos’ skin, fingers splayed wide across his neck, and Athos’ lashes flutter close. He sighs, the sound dangerously close to a moan, and bites his lip, feels his cheeks flush.

“Hn,” he hears Porthos chuckle, and the grip around his neck gets a little bit tighter. “I really like those deep waters of yours.”

Athos doesn’t dare ask him what he means by this, and after a while he falls back asleep, his cheek resting on Porthos chest, listening to his heart beat.

 

Athos awakens once more to Porthos stretching beneath him, to muscles shifting beneath his cheek, and he quickly opens his eyes, ready to get out of Porthos’ way in case he wants to get up.

She never liked when he was too clingy.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but the sun streaming in trough his dirty window panes is telling enough. It’s closer to midday than sunrise, and Porthos does in fact want to get up, but he doesn’t push Athos off like he could so easily do. Instead he slings his arm around him, turns until Athos is laying on the mattress, grins and winks at him when he sees that he’s is looking at him. “I don’t know about you, but I’m gettin’ mighty hungry.”

He gets up, visibly comfortable in his nudity, struts around Athos’ spartan apartment for a quick wash and then gets dressed.

Athos watches him from the bed, cannot look away. It’s as if his gaze was trapped, as if he was forced to watch the play of muscles shifting in Porthos’ back while he slips on his undergarments and trousers, while he pulls the shirt over his head.

It arouses him. Athos doesn’t understand how he could fall so far in only one night, when it took weeks and weeks until he could admit to himself how much he enjoyed what she did to him – how he can look at Porthos now and want him when she used to be his whole world.

Once he’s modest, Porthos turns around to lift a questioning eyebrow at him, and Athos sits up, pulls the blanket over his lap. Porthos laughs at him – his dark eyes affectionate and full of amusement. “Just get up my friend. Nothin' there I haven’t seen before. Don’t think I’ll leave without you. You need some proper food inside you.”

Athos tilts his head to the side, feels his world slot back into place – or maybe just the part of him that’s able to form sentences and at least _act_ like a human being. “Are you attempting to be a mother-hen again, Porthos?”

Porthos’ answering grin is infectious, “I’d say I’m more of a cock, wouldn’t you?”

Athos feels his mouth twitch, and then Porthos moves towards him, bends forward and kisses him, right on the lips. It feels like Athos imagines being struck by lightning would. A quick burst of heat that travels through his whole body. “Come on, get your ass out of bed. I’m starvin’.”

He straightens and moves to step away again, and Athos finds himself reaching out and holding on to his wrist. “Porthos.”

Porthos keeps still immediately, looks down at him with an expectant tilt to his head, both eyebrows lifted. Athos would prefer to receive ten whip lashes to his naked back instead of what he’s about to do, but he cannot let this continue. “What happened last night,” he starts, briefly lets his eyes flicker over Porthos’ face before he hastily stares at the floor. “I would be grateful if you would –“ He pauses, takes a deep breath. “It cannot happen again.”

Because he cannot drag Porthos down with him, cannot be guilty of tarnishing his friend, just because Porthos showed him kindness.

“Alright,” Porthos says, stretches the word as far as it goes. He sounds just the littlest bit disappointed, but his voice doesn’t betray any anger, is still friendly and warm. “Does that mean you’re not gonna get breakfast with me?”

Athos feels his lungs lock up, trapping all the air that’s inside them, and he stares up at Porthos with an astonishment in his eyes he’s entirely unable to hide. Porthos looks back for a moment, and then his mouth twists into a complicated grimace, half embarrassment and half grudging affection. “What? Ye have to eat – might just as well do it in my company.”

Athos stares at him for what feels like an eternity, only belatedly realizing that he’s still holding on to Porthos’ wrist – and lets go as if he’s burning him.

Porthos’ expression shifts immediately. He looks sad, suddenly, and guilty, and turns towards the door, moves to pick up his hat and the rest of his uniform. “I’ll leave you alone, then.”

“No!” Athos doesn’t mean to shout, doesn’t mean to leap up and reach for Porthos, fingers clawing into his shirt and tugging, shaking with barely contained fear. “Don’t,” he says, much quieter, barely audible. “I’ll come. Just let me get dressed.”

Porthos turns back around, slowly and careful, and Athos doesn’t dare look up at him, keeps his gaze fixed on his chest instead, on the point where the fabric of his shirt starts to fall open to reveal his skin.

“Maybe,” Porthos says, “I should clear up somethin’ first.” His voice is rough, but still the softest Athos has ever heard it. “And that’s that I’m your _friend_ , alright? No matter what happened last night. I just … I just hope the same is true for you.”

Athos does look up at him then, lost for words and overwhelmed, and when he leans forward, Porthos meets him halfway. The kiss is gentle and soft, almost timid, and when they part, Athos clears his throat, tries to breathe through the pain in his chest. “It still cannot happen again.”

“Whatever you want, my friend,” Porthos murmurs. “As long as you don’t start deceivin’ yourself into thinkin’ you’ll ever be rid of me.”

Athos takes another deep, stuttering breath and shakes his head. “I would never.”

“Good.” Porthos reaches up to pat his head, and Athos cannot stop his eyes from falling shut, cannot stop himself from leaning into the touch. “Now put some trousers on, we’re goin’ out for breakfast.”

 

Athos manages to keep himself together for a week. He builds his walls back up, on a sturdier foundation this time, builds them up stone by stone, sparring with d’Artagnan, bickering with Aramis, sharing meals with Porthos and watching him cheat at cards.

He manages a whole week of being able to pretend nothing’s changed, that he does not think about Porthos’ touch each night when he goes to sleep, drunk and miserable. That he doesn’t wake up hard and panting, with images in his head that bring a flush to his cheeks and make it almost impossible to look Porthos in the face when he sees him, to meet his eyes and acknowledge his existence.

Almost. Only almost.

Because Porthos is his friend and he cannot lose him; so he fights: fights the urge to be close to him just as hard as the one to run away. He makes it _work_ , fills the empty cage of his ribs with memories of camaraderie and brotherhood, locks out the fluttering glimpses of what he’ll never have again.

Porthos makes it easy, doesn’t tempt him, doesn’t taunt him. He is in fact so much the man he always was that Athos could almost delude himself into believing that nothing happened – if it weren’t for his own inability to forget and get over it.

But he is too weak, too used to giving in, and Porthos is by his side each and every day, impossible to ignore.

As much time as he still spends with him, he doesn’t allow himself to drink anymore in Porthos’ presence, afraid what he’ll do once he’s drunk. He only drinks alone now, does not risk Aramis or d’Artagnan to witness him whispering Porthos’ name after too many bottles of cheap wine.

He catches himself touching his neck more and more often, catches himself longing for her locket, for something to hold him in place and weigh him down so he doesn’t float away.

And he remembers how Porthos’ touch made it better, how good it felt when Porthos touched his neck, fingers rough and strong over his pulse.

Now and again he stops right in the middle of the streets of Paris, looks around himself and wonders. Sometimes he’ll see the flash of a grin, the hint of broad shoulders, dark curls beneath the brim of a hat, and his gut will twist and he’ll feel hot all over. He’s always looking at men now, distracted by the way they walk and talk … but only when they remind him of Porthos. Only then does his mind start to wander and his body betray him.

By the end of the week he’s almost used to it. He can hold his head high again, can pretend he doesn’t notice Porthos looking at him sometimes, gaze dark and heated. Porthos never says anything, though. He never tries to touch him in a manner other than friendly, never lets his hands stray. He’s more gentleman than any high born member of the nobility ever could be.

Athos respects him for it – admires him, really. They grew up so differently, and they shouldn’t be friends, wouldn’t be if they paid any heed to society’s rules. But Athos’ sheltered upbringing and his family’s riches did not prevent him from experiencing sorrow or sin; and Porthos’ dreadful childhood did not prevent him from growing into a man worthy of all the goodness on God’s earth.

Society’s rules do not apply to them. They are both outcasts of the worlds they grew up in, the Musketeers the only home they have.

He clings to that thought all through his seven days of battling with himself.

Seven days of fighting his demons with everything that he is, and all it takes is a few drops of blood to remind Athos of his basest human instincts. One would think he’d be more resilient by now, has seen his brothers bleed so often, has seen them on the brink of death far too many times.

It’s a scuffle with a group of Red Guards, nothing out of the ordinary. He’s not even surprised when one of them pulls a knife and comes at him. What does surprise him is Porthos pushing him out of the way. For a few seconds he’s furious that Porthos dares to interfere – as if Athos couldn’t defend himself against a _Red Guard_ – but then he notices the second man, about to stab him in the back. The one trying to run his knife into Porthos’ chest instead now.

The leather of his uniform deflects most of the blow, and the blade merely nicks Porthos’ skin, but Athos still feels as if he’s drowning, and the air around him freezes. For a few seconds he’s deafened, doesn’t hear anything but the rushing of his own blood.

Only when Porthos pushes the knife to the side and punches his attacker in the face so hard he goes down like a sack of flour does the world start spinning again – but it picks up too fast, colours blurred and then fading to black and white.

All Athos can do is give himself over to his training, let his body go through the motions of fighting the rest of the Guards off, while his mind narrows down into a cold steel blade, collecting frost at the tip. His breathing slows and with it the spinning sensation in his head. Suddenly, he’s frighteningly aware of everything that goes on around him: of Aramis asking Porthos how deep the cut went, if he’ll need stitches, of Porthos laughing while he knocks down another Guard, of d’Artagnan asking if he can sew him up this time – for practice. He can feel the sun on his face, the lack of a breeze in the dank alley, is aware of the smell of dirt and sweat.

And then the Guards are defeated, groaning on the ground or scrambling away, and Athos straightens, sheathes his blade and looks at Porthos, lifts one brow. “Are you going to let the Rookie come near you with a needle?”

Porthos shrugs his wide shoulders and then winces. As shallow as the cut may be, it still hurts. For a moment, the red of his blood is all the colour Athos is able to see, and the smell of copper is too sharp in the air. Then Porthos grins. “He needs to learn sometime. But not on me.”

He tries to look down at his own chest, and Athos huffs, tries to ignore that he couldn’t shift his focus away from Porthos even if he tried, and steps up to him. “Let me see.”

Porthos doesn’t stop him when he lifts his hands and starts unbuckling his uniform, keeps unusually still, and Athos looks up at his face to find him smirking.

“You are not normally so docile,” he comments.

Porthos shrugs again, winces again, and Athos huffs. “Stop that.”

He’s aware of d’Artagnan and Aramis behind him, each looking over one of his shoulders, both only mildly concerned about Porthos’ injury.

“He needs a new shirt,” Aramis says. “Thank God.”

“I don’t care what you say,” Porthos informs him. “I’ll never like those frilly things of yours.”

Aramis feigns distress at having his taste in fashion slandered while d’Artagnan expresses his regret at Porthos not needing any stitches. The cut is short and shallow, already healing, will leave only a fine scar across Porthos’ chest. But it is rather close to his heart, and Athos finds himself staring at it, realizing that Porthos received it defending him.

It’s not so much that he could have died – that’s a given on almost any day. It’s that he doesn’t even seem to realize what he’s done, that he smiles and banters with Aramis and d’Artagnan, full of joy at being alive – not because life is a fragile thing and he risks it daily, but because of life itself. He’d enjoy it just as much if he was living it somewhere in the country, surrounded by sheep or something similarly unthreatening.

He protected Athos out of instinct, and now that it’s done and he’s hurt, he doesn’t mention it, doesn’t want to be praised.

“The wound should be cleaned,” Athos hears himself say. “So it can heal properly.”

Porthos squints down at his chest again. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Athos drawls, buckles his uniform up again to protect the wound and hide the cut.

“We’ll take care of the, ahem, refuse still littering this street,” Aramis volunteers and gently kicks one of the unconscious Red Guards. “You take care of our bruised hero.”

“I’m not bruised,” Porthos informs him, and Athos grabs him by the arm and turns him around so Porthos has to twist his head and talk over his shoulder at a grinning Aramis. “None of those ferrets even got a proper hit in!”

“Ferrets?” Athos inquires while he marches him off, and Porthos grins.

“They’re squirrelly, and they stink.”

Athos has nothing to say to that. Porthos is undoubtedly correct in this assessment. They walk in silence for a while, Athos’ hand around Porthos’ upper arm, and it feels good to be so close to him again, grounding.

People make way for them easily, as they almost always do when confronted with the alternative of being shoved to the side by Porthos. Athos has always rather enjoyed walking with him.

“Where are we goin'?” Porthos inquires eventually.

“Aramis’ lodgings,” Athos tells him. “He _is_ the only one of us keeping a proper stock of bandages and ointment – I’m convinced he charms it off the Nuns.”

Porthos chuckles and looks at him from the side. “You plannin’ on breakin’ his door down?”

“If he remembered to lock it for once, yes,” Athos nods, keeps his gaze straight ahead, despite the warming effect Porthos’ eyes have on him.

Reaching Aramis’ lodgings doesn’t take them long, and Athos shoots Porthos a significant look when he finds the door indeed unlocked. Porthos merely grins. “He makes up for it with other qualities.”

“Obviously.” Athos sighs and steps into Aramis’ rooms, pulls Porthos with him and closes the door before he walks over to the little chest where Aramis keeps his supplies. “Take your uniform off, please.”

Porthos lifts both brows but he complies. He takes his hat off first and puts it on the bed before he starts to get out of uniform, grunts when the movement causes him pain. Athos immediately turns towards him to help, bats Porthos’ hands away and unbuckles his uniform once more.

He becomes aware of what he’s doing only when his fingers touch naked skin, when the uniform is off, and he’s pulling up Porthos’ shirt, revealing his stomach, and then his chest.

He freezes, knuckles grazing Porthos’ skin, can’t move. Only when Porthos lifts his hand to close it around his wrist does he remember how to, and pulls away. Porthos lets him, doesn’t say a word, simply takes off his shirt like Athos asked him to.

The silence stretches out between them, and Athos takes a deep breath, lets it steady him. He squares his shoulders and gets the supplies to clean Porthos’ wound, returns to stand in front of him once more, although he is afraid of what might happen.

Porthos is still quiet, watches him, expression unreadable. He hisses when Athos touches his wound, but doesn’t flinch away like he normally would – like he always does. He keeps still.

He doesn’t move at all while Athos cleans his wound, and when Athos looks up at him, his eyes are closed, trusting, his face almost peaceful. It’s quiet in the room, the Parisian bustle outside far, far away, and Athos can hear their breathing, regular and even, synchronized.

“You finished?” Porthos asks and peeks one eye open when Athos stops moving. Athos’ fingers are still on his chest, gauze held between them, and his lips twitch into a soft grin. “I don’t think that’s necessary, my friend.”

Athos keeps breathing, keeps staring at where his fingers are almost touching the wound; he can feel Porthos’ heart beating beneath his touch.

“Is somethin' the matter?” Porthos asks him, and again he closes his fingers around Athos’ wrist, gently pulls his hand down and off his chest. “You’re awfully quiet, even for your standards.”

“I am fine,” Athos states, voice smooth and devoid of emotion. “You got hurt.”

“I’m kind of aware,” Porthos murmurs, and he’s still holding on to Athos’ wrist, his thumb stroking over his pulse, back and forth. “Are you alright, my friend?”

Athos shakes his head then, automatically, and his eyes widen when he realizes, looks up at Porthos and holds his breath. Porthos looks back, confused and worried, brows knit into a frown. “You gonna let me help?”

Athos blinks up at him, feels a strange kind of serenity spread out into his bones. He lifts his chin, closes his eyes – and kisses him. The gauze falls to the floor, unheeded.

Porthos makes a strangled noise of surprise, but then he kisses him back, enthusiastic and gentle. His arms come up to circle around Athos back, pull him in and against his body, and Athos lets him.

He opens his mouth, unable to ignore the fact that he wants this, that he wants to be kissed – wants to be kissed by Porthos. But Porthos doesn’t take the invitation. Instead he breaks the kiss, takes a deep breath and leans his forehead against Athos’. “Ye keep changin’ your mind on me.”

Athos closes his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s alright. Just wanna make sure your head’s in the right place. Watchin’ a brother bleed can have a funny effect on people.”

Athos’ mouth pulls into a smirk. “But it is merely a scratch.”

“That it is,” Porthos admits, and Athos can hear the grin in his voice. “Ye want me to continue?”

Athos nods, slowly and carefully, and licks his lips. “Yes. I want that.”

Porthos immediately kisses him again. He’s not quite so gentle this time, licks into Athos’ mouth and pulls him so tight against his chest that Athos can feel his heat through the fabric of his shirt. It’s perfect. He lifts his arms to loop them around Porthos’ neck and hold on to him, tries to ignore all the ways in which Porthos’ kiss is different from hers.

She was always so teasing – seductive and tempting in everything she did – and he loved that about her, loved how unashamedly alluring she was, never afraid to take what she wanted. It was what first attracted him to her: the way she would hold his gaze, open and self-confident, while she smiled at him in a manner calculated to make his blood boil. Before her, he hadn’t known any woman who even compared.

Porthos has tempting qualities of his own, but not on purpose, not by design – merely because he _is_ , because Athos wants him. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t taunt Athos the way she did. The hands stroking over Athos’ back are sure and steady, caressing. He doesn’t bite him, not even playfully, doesn’t pull at his hair, or push his leg in between Athos’.

Still, Athos’ knees weaken, and he starts to feel drunk the longer the kiss continues. He presses forward and against Porthos, wants to be kissed with more force, more _intent_ , wants Porthos to hold him as tight as he can and leave marks on him.

He needs new scars, scars he can find with his fingertips and be ashamed of for entirely new reasons.

And then Porthos’ right hand comes up to his neck, fingers splayed wide and he _grips_. The pressure comes and goes, it’s over in a flash, but Athos’ knees almost buckle, and he moans, reflexively pushes his hips forward.

Porthos’ answering groan resonates through his whole body – and then Porthos stops, breaks the kiss once more. “Sorry,” he pants, and he sounds just as wrecked as Athos feels, “didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Do it again,” Athos whispers, barely able to contain his need, “please.”

For a heartbeat or two nothing happens. Porthos is immobile against him, and Athos holds his breath, mesmerized. And then Porthos latches onto him, sucks his tongue into his mouth and squeezes his neck, possessive, unforgiving.

It feels like the tide washing over him and dragging him under, a direct line between the rough grip on his neck and his cock, and he moans again, opens his mouth wider for Porthos, kisses him deeper.

Porthos’ drags his thumb back and forth over his pulse, and the longer it goes on, the weaker it makes him. He starts to shiver, pushes his hips forward again and again, until Porthos flinches away from him suddenly, hissing in pain.

It takes Athos a few seconds to understand what happened. As soon as he does, he puts his hands on Porthos’ shoulders to hold him at arms length and assess the damage.

“It’s alright,” Porthos tries to calm him. “I’d just forgotten it was there.” Athos’ eyes flick away from the injury and up to his, and Porthos winks at him. “It was a good kiss.”

Athos automatically licks his lips, and Porthos’ gaze drops lower and on his mouth, turns heated and aroused. Athos tries to ignore it, concentrates on the cut on Porthos’ chest.

“Athos.” Porthos’ hand is still on his neck, heavy and warm, and Athos’ gaze blurs for a moment when he moves it to drag his fingertips through the hair at his nape. “Leave it be or patch me up, but please get on with the kissin'.”

Athos’ lips twitch into a smile, despite his best efforts. “I really should not.”

“And why is that?” Porthos steps closer, towers over him, eyes earnest all of a sudden. “You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?”

“… I did,” Athos confesses, because he cannot lie to Porthos. “But that does not make it right.”

Porthos lifts his left brow. “And what makes it wrong, exactly?”

Athos moves away from him then, out from under his touch, prefers to bring some distance between them so he can think clearly. Because he needs to make Porthos understand that he is tainted, will taint Porthos in turn if he allows himself to be selfish. Regardless of everything Athos could say concerning this matter, of the scripture he could cite, “You do not know me” is all he comes up with.

“Sure I do,” Porthos contradicts him, immediate and full of conviction. “Just cause I don’t know every little detail of your past doesn’t mean I don’t know who you are now.”

His words ring true, leave Athos off balance and lost for words of his own, and when he looks across the room, Porthos rewards him with a tentative smile. “And I like kissin' who you are just fine.”

Athos doesn’t understand how he can be like that. How he can just say those things and _mean_ them, how he can be so unashamed about what he wants. Athos himself never was like that, and even she could not change it; she never made him feel like it was alright to surrender to his needs.

He clears his throat. “Just let … let me patch you up.”

Porthos’ smile morphs into a frown, and the light dims in his eyes. It hurts Athos to see it, makes him feel guilty to be the cause of it. So he moves forward to pick the gauze up from where he let it fall to the floor. He cleans Porthos’ wound once more and bandages it, tries not to let his hands linger, not touch longer than is allowed.

“Athos,” Porthos murmurs when he moves away from him to put the supplies back to where he took them from. “I don’t understand you, my friend.” He follows Athos, stands behind him when he straightens after closing the chest. “You’re startin’ to worry me.”

“There is no need for that,” Athos responds, voice cool and smooth, but he does not turn around for fear of what his eyes might betray. “There is no reason for worry, I promise you.”

Porthos huffs, and Athos feels it, feels the hot breath against the skin of his neck. “Stop makin’ promises like that, cause I don’t believe them, ye hear? I’m not _stupid_.”

There is anger in his voice, and disappointment, but the hand he lays on Athos’ shoulder to turn him around is nevertheless gentle. “There’s no shame in likin’ what you like.”

“Yes,” Athos says immediately, can’t help himself, “there is.”

In that, at least, she was of the same opinion as him. Towards the end she told him he should be ashamed – ashamed of how easy he made it for her to bring him to his knees and keep him there, ashamed of his twisted desires. And he was. The shame was always there; he could never shake it.

Some of his thoughts must show, no matter how used Athos is to hiding them. The worry twisting across Porthos’ face is unmistakeable, and the heat in his eyes is threatening to spill over and burn them both. Still, Athos does not expect him to say what he does, “Are you sayin’ I should be ashamed of myself?”

Athos stares at him. “No. Of course not.”

He does not even comprehend how Porthos could think that. How he could accuse Athos of holding him in any form of contempt, when Porthos is one of the few truly good men Athos knows – one he is grateful and proud to call his friend.

Porthos growls. “Only you then, yeah? Why? Cause of your noble birth? Cause from a street-rat like me, nobody expects differently anyway?”

The disappointment in his voice makes Athos feel sick. “Porthos, no – that is not … that is not what I mean!”

Porthos’ expression softens, suddenly, but the storm does not vanish from his eyes, merely calms, and there is explicit danger of the sails picking up wind again, of Athos losing his ship to a sea he should never have dared to sail in the first place. “Then what do you mean? It’s either a shameful thing to do or it isn’t! Ye can’t have it both ways for the two of us!”

Breathing is hard, under the circumstances – as is finding a clear thought to hold on to so it might drag him back to shore. Athos feels lost – lost for words, lost in an ocean of conflicting impulses, and all he can do is stare at Porthos and plead with his sanity to stay with him for just a moment longer.

“We’re not hurtin’ anybody,” Porthos murmurs when Athos doesn’t answer him. “I always thought that was the most important thing. Are ye tellin' me I was wrong?”

Athos stares at his face, looks for the ready smile to return to his eyes, for his mouth to twist into a grin, and when it doesn’t happen, when the sadness remains, he feels so guilty that it compels him to step forward and put both hands on Porthos’ shoulders. “You were not wrong, my friend. I am sorry.”

Porthos huffs, but does not step away from him, remains under his touch. “I don’t want you to be sorry, I want you to explain to me what in the Lord’s name is goin’ on with you! You can’t change your mind on me every time the wind changes direction – drives a man mad, that does!”

It is very seldom that Porthos enunciates his words as carefully as this, and the fire in his eyes is not anger, but something else, something Athos does not understand, does not know what to do with.

Before Athos can even try to answer him there’s a scratch at the door, and then it opens to reveal Aramis, key in hand, expression bemused. “I forgot to lock the door again, it seems.” His gaze travels from Porthos’ face to Athos’ and back again. “Am I interrupting? Surely, our wounded hero is well taken care of by now?”

Porthos growls at him as he is wont to do on the rare occasions Aramis wears out his patience. Aramis’ gaze sharpens instantly. “Are you hurt worse than we thought, my friend?”

Porthos smiles at him then, fleeting and not as infectious as usually, but he smiles. “Nah, it’s merely a scratch.”

Aramis steps neatly into the room and closes the door behind him. “Then might I inquire why you’re parading half-naked around the room? Not that I mind the display, but shouldn’t you be off, buying yourself a new shirt?”

He steps up to Porthos to inspect Athos’ handiwork and lets his fingers ghost over edges of the gauze covering Porthos’ wound. “Our leader took great pains for you it seems – the last time he did this for me he almost strangled me with the bandages.”

“Because you would not stop talking,” Athos tells him, voice dry, “or criticizing my handiwork.”

It feels strange seeing Aramis so close to Porthos, although he has seen them much closer many times before, and Athos wonders, suddenly – wonders how close they are when no one is watching. For some strange reason the thought does not please him at all. He clears his throat. “I shall leave you now to do as you please, gentlemen.”

“Oh no, you _shan’t_ ,” Porthos grouses and makes a grab for his ruined shirt. “You’re gonna come with me, pay Constance a visit.”

Athos watches Aramis blink in astonishment at Porthos’ gruff tone of voice, at the unmistakable _order_ he uttered, and he straightens his shoulders, lifts his head high. “Shall I?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says and shoots him a look so full of conflicting emotion that Athos deflates a little. Porthos has every reason to be angry. By rights it should not be possible for him to look so unsure and remorseful underneath that anger, though. “I need your high-born expertise in pickin' out a new shirt.”

The last words come accompanied by a sharp grin, brittle around the edges, and Athos, understanding that he brought this on himself, finds himself nodding. Porthos deserves an explanation. “Fair enough.”

He catches Aramis staring and offers him a sardonic smile. “He already told you that your taste does not suit him, did he not?”

Aramis’ expression softens quickly enough at that, and he smiles at Porthos. “Oh, have it your way, you unrefined brute.”

Porthos waggles his brows at him. “You love my unrefined brutish ways.”

“Dearly,” Aramis agrees, easily.

Athos clears his throat. “Shall we then?”

Porthos nods and puts his ruined shirt on, lets Aramis help him with strapping him back into his uniform. Athos watches, gaze trapped by the movement of Aramis’ deft fingers over the sturdy leather, and when he looks up, Porthos’ eyes are on him, dark and determined.

Athos knows that look. It would seem that he is in trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

They leave Aramis’ lodgings and step back out into the streets of Paris. Athos tries to concentrate on weaving a way through the crowd instead of the persistent heat of Porthos by his side, or the knot forming in his belly.

He knows he’ll have to tell him soon now – knows that he has to give at least the attempt of an explanation for what is so clear in his heart and soul but never easy to put into words.

Strangely, this exercise in anticipation is not wholly unpleasant. It reminds him of the moment just before the whip would strike his skin, of the expectation of hurt, and, in turn, relief.

Porthos jostles him out of this memory by grabbing his arm and adjusting his course, thus preventing him from stumbling over an alley cat. He does not let go afterwards.

“I am able to navigate these streets on my own,” Athos reminds him quietly, under his breath. He hears Porthos grunt but does not look whether it comes accompanied by a grin or a frown.

“I know,” Porthos answers, just as quietly. “But you don’t have to.”

They have arrived at Madame Bonacieux’s before Athos can even attempt an answer to that.

They find her in the kitchen, mopping the floor, and when she hears them and turns around, the hopeful light dims in her eyes as soon as she recognizes them. Athos cannot be sure what happened between her and d’Artagnan, but given that she has remained under her husband’s roof, he is rather certain that it was not pleasant.

D’Artagnan has been quieter than usual these last few weeks, prone to frequent bouts of sullen silence, and Athos worries about him, knows how much he is still ruled by his heart. (Always will be, probably, if Athos takes his own experiences into account.)

Porthos, just as aware of her pallid countenance, greets her with a friendly grin and walks up to her with an outstretched hand. “Madame.”

She straightens and accepts his forward gesture, rewards him with a shaky smile of her own that sparks to life for just a second when she takes Porthos’ hand into hers. “Monsieur.”

Athos finds himself smiling at the both of them and greets her with a nod when she drops a brief curtsy to him.

“What may I do for you?” she asks, polite through and through when neither d’Artagnan nor Aramis give her reason to behave otherwise, and Porthos shows her the bloodied cut in his shirt.

She sighs. “What happened?”

“Red Guards,” Athos informs her softly. “But only very … briefly. Porthos was the only one unfortunate enough to get hurt.”

She seems relieved to hear this, and he finds himself smiling yet again, refrains very wisely from pointing out that d’Artagnan was not hurt at all.

“Do you want me to clean and mend this for you?” she asks Porthos, and critically eyes his shirt that’s already darned and re-sewn beyond recognition. “Or will you finally buy a new one?”

“I’m about to hand over a good part of my hard-earned money to you,” Porthos informs her with a good-natured grin. “You finally get your way.”

That gets a real smile out of her, and she turns and lightly steps out of the room – impatiently orders them to follow when they do not move to do so on their own fast enough. She leads them into the back of the house and into a room where ladies of fashion presumably get to try on their new dresses, and then leaves them there.

“We should've brought Aramis,” Porthos muses as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Hitting him would’ve done her a world of good.”

Athos nods and does not try to stop his lips from twitching into an appreciative grin.

Porthos grins back and winks at him, and Athos experiences a sudden spike of warmth in his gut, trickling up his neck. The warmth stays with him, even when Porthos sobers and frowns. “She’ll be alright though, won’t she? Should we do somethin’?”

“I wouldn’t know what we _can_ do,” Athos answers him, voice thoughtful. “We can hardly force her to leave her husband.”

Porthos nods and growls, visibly dissatisfied by such an unreasonable state of affairs where he cannot simply order people to be happy with the ones they love.

Constance cuts their conversation short by returning to them with her arms full of pristine white shirts. She lays them on the side table by the window and then gestures for Porthos to come closer. “I made these myself,” she explains. “The fabric is sturdy and the seams double-stitched – they won’t give up on you unless you treat them as despicable as only a Musketeer can.”

Porthos nods, eyes slightly wider than usual, so painfully respectful towards her and her superior understanding of the matter that Athos suddenly wishes he were anywhere else but in this room. Watching those two interact is _painful_ for anyone who wishes to maintain emotional detachment.

But emotional detachment is out of the question when Porthos leans over Constance’s shoulder to test the shirts’ fabric with his fingertips, and she tells him in her delightfully open way that she really hopes he washed his hands rather recently.

“I always do after I got someone else’s blood on them,” Porthos says earnestly, and she huffs and slaps his arm.

“Do you see something you like?”

His eyes widen even more. “They look all the same to me, to be honest.”

Athos takes a deep breath and steps forward. “Let me see.”

Porthos immediately moves to make way for him, and Constance shoots him a suspicious glance. “You do not usually interfere in how they dress themselves.”

“Yes, well …” Athos leans over the table, scans the display with a discerning eye, “… he asked me to.”

“And you usually do what he asks you to?” Constance inquires, face disbelieving. “Or only after he’s done gotten himself cut up?”

Porthos clears his throat. “Usually not even then. Today is a very special day.”

Athos ignores their teasing and picks a shirt, clean-cut and free of the frills Aramis likes so much. Its stitching is fine and precise, and its cuffs rather modest, but the front is deeply cut for lacing-up. “This one. It will make you look like a pirate. You like that.”

Next to him he hears Constance make an amused noise, and when he looks at her she smiles, twinkles up at him with her usual lack of regard for decorum. “It seems you know him rather well.”

Porthos grins, does not take any offence at being called a pirate. “I keep telling him that.” He comes closer, inspects the shirt and nods. “It’ll do very nicely.”

Constance looks pleased, troubles of the heart briefly forgotten over a successful transaction, and purses her lips. “If you put it on right now, I could make the necessary changes – if there are any. I don’t think I need to take it in at the shoulders, though – I usually don’t for you. But if you leave me your old shirt, I can give you a better price for the new one.”

Porthos beams at her and nods, and immediately moves to take off his uniform. Constance picks up the discarded shirts from the side table and leaves the room in a manner suggesting she doesn’t mind getting an eyeful at all, but has to keep up a professional appearance for propriety's sake.

Athos could not stop the little grin twisting his lips if his life depended on it.

“You wanna go get a drink when we’re finished?” Porthos asks him while he’s struggling out of his shirt, and Athos opens his mouth to give him an affirmative answer when he remembers.

He freezes, feeling off balance for a second or two, but then he clears his throat. “Certainly.”

Porthos looks at him, shirt in hand. “You needn’t sound so apprehensive. I promise I’ll behave.”

“Your behaviour is not what I’m worried about,” Athos tells him, and then Constance is back, complains about Porthos’ lack of attire.

“Put it on, silly, I can’t see if it fits when you hold it in your hands!”

Porthos looks distracted while he follows her orders, lets her pull him this way and that, lace up the front of the shirt and ruffle his cuffs, all the while gazing at Athos, a little crease between his brows.

While Constance doesn’t find any fault with the cut of the shirt or how it falls over Porthos’ shoulders, Athos could kick himself that he could not keep his mouth shut.

A worried Porthos is not easy to handle, his desire to help overruling almost all other instincts – and he can never be more stubborn as when he’s convinced you’re keeping secrets you’d be much better off sharing with him.

Athos watches him paying for his new shirt and donning his uniform, and then they take their leave of Constance, with Porthos bowing low over her hand, as if she were a queen instead of a seamstress.

“You give us a call if you need anythin',” Athos hears him murmur, watches her initial look of confusion give way to surprised gratefulness.

“I will,” she promises, sounding a little choked-up, and gives her hand to Athos who kisses her fingertips very punctiliously.

“Take care.”

“I will,” she says again, and he can feel her gaze on the back of his head as he walks down the street, Porthos by his side.

They round the corner, and Porthos clears his throat. “Where do you wanna go?”

Dread sinks into Athos’ stomach, and he takes a deep breath. “It is still rather early for a drink though, is it not?”

Porthos snorts and then his hand is on Athos’ neck, effectively controlling his movements and pulling him sideways into a shady alley, off the main street and to where it’s much quieter. They stop, and Athos’ thoughts come to a halt as well, the whole of his body focusing on the warm weight keeping him in place. He does not even notice the smell of the refuse lining the gutter anymore.

“We can talk right here if you want,” Porthos says, stepping in front of him and leaning in. “I’d just assumed you’d prefer to have a drink first.”

Athos licks his lips unconsciously, almost shivers when he sees Porthos’ gaze drop down towards his mouth. “Not this time.”

“So, you gonna tell me what’s the matter with you?” Porthos asks, re-focusing on the problem at hand much faster than Athos would like. “I mean … I could understand if you just didn’t like it, or even if you liked it just fine but didn’t want to do it with _me_ more than the once, but … but that’s not it at all, is it?”

“… No,” Athos agrees, voice smooth and too cold. “That’s not it at all.”

Porthos looks at him expectantly, and furrows his brow when nothing more is forthcoming. “You want me to guess?”

Athos returns his gaze feeling like the buildings on either side of them start to lean over and down to listen in, and looks towards the ground, stares at his dusty boots instead of at Porthos.

“Alright,” Porthos huffs. “It’s not like you’re the first noble-born stuck-up who finds that his tastes run a little differently from what _society_ deems acceptable. I just never thought that you of all people wouldn’t look through that kind of horse-shit sooner rather than later.”

Athos looks back up at that, encounters a stormy gaze that’s almost – but only almost – reproachful. There’s just enough sad compassion in Porthos’ eyes to make Athos not so much angry as defiant, to let him forget their surroundings and tell Porthos the truth.

“I let my passions rule me once,” he gets out, voice low and biting. “It destroyed me and the woman I loved, and it killed my brother. All that because I was weak, because I thought that what I was doing would not have any consequences, that it was _safe_.” He looks back down at the dirty street. “I will not risk destroying anyone else. I could not forgive myself.”

Instead of wilting under the words, Porthos makes himself bigger, squares his shoulders and sets his jaw. “That’s not what you said before. You said you were ashamed for what you like – and that your behaviour was worrisome. And as tragic as it may be – what has enjoying the company of men to do with the death of your brother?”

Athos closes his eyes, realizing that he needs to tell Porthos much more than he anticipated. “It is not,” he begins, stops, and takes a fortifying breath. “It is not just the matter of enjoying the company of another man. You … you did notice how I reacted to … how I behaved when you … how it affected me when –“ He breaks off again, desperate and unable to say it out loud, and then Porthos grips his neck firmer, lets his fingers dig into his skin.

“You mean this?” he asks, voice as rough as his touch.

Athos can only nod, feels the shame mingle with arousal as it always does.

“You’re ashamed you like being marked – being controlled and told what to do?” Porthos’ voice is low and gritty, his lips almost touching Athos’ ear, and Athos shivers, nods again. He cannot open his eyes, feels safer in the darkness where he cannot see his own shadow and feel threatened by it.

Porthos’ heat is a steady presence right next to him, unmoving and relentless. “Is that what happened between you and your Lady? She’s the one who made you realize you have a taste for bein' dominated?”

Again, Athos nods, almost hypnotized by the low rumble of Porthos’ voice, and he doesn’t fight the pull between them, sways towards him. Porthos’ left hand comes up to rest on his hip, keeps him steady. “Is that why you hate her so?”

“She made me weak,” Athos whispers. “She made me enjoy it, and I thought it was alright because I loved her – because she loved me …” He trails off, and Porthos starts stroking his neck with his thumb, suddenly so gentle it sends a hot wave of longing down Athos’ back.

“Tell me,” Porthos murmurs, voice soft and pleading. “Tell me what she did to you.”

Athos feels Porthos’ breath ghost over his cheek, hot puffs of air stirring his hair, and he swallows, licks his lips. “I … I let her do anything she wanted to me and … and then she killed my brother.”

Porthos makes a wounded noise, leans his forehead against Athos’, his thumb still stroking over Athos’ skin, back and forth, again and again. “That’s hardly your fault though, is it?”

Athos swallows convulsively, feels the threat of tears at the back of his lids. “I was the head of the family,” he whispers. “I was responsible for him just as much as I was responsible for her behaviour.”

Porthos makes little shushing noises, tries to calm him, and at first Athos has no idea why, does not realize that the wetness behind his lids has started to spill over – and once he does, he does not care. “I was her husband,” he chokes out, desperate and full of self-loathing, “and I let her rule me as if I was too weak of body and mind to think for myself!”

The words breaking out of him have very much the same effect that water has leaking through a crack in a damn. As small as the damage may be at first, it is still sufficient to destroy the whole structure. Athos feels weak after confessing his sins, feels nothing of the relief he expected – until Porthos brings both of his arms up to pull him close and against his chest, until Porthos tells him that he is wrong to blame himself.

“I know you do that,” Athos hears him whisper, almost drowning in his warmth. “I know that you always, always do that – but you’re not responsible for another man’s actions, and you weren’t responsible for those of your wife.” He sounds so sure that Athos almost believes him. But even though he does not, Porthos’ conviction is still enough to stop his tears. “Women aren’t put on this earth for us to rule,” Porthos says. “So you didn’t. There’s no blame in that.”

Porthos’ voice is still low, he’s still murmuring directly into Athos’ ear, and it doesn’t require any special skill or precision from Athos to lift his head and kiss him.

Instead of refusing him right away, Porthos kisses him back, softly, gently, lets his fingers stroke through Athos’ hair, cradles his head with both hands. But when Athos opens his mouth for him he pulls away, and Athos hears him take a deep breath. “Please let me take you home. We need to get off the street. Will you allow me to do that?”

“I don’t …” Athos has to fight for breath just as much as he has to fight for clear thoughts. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Porthos kisses him again, soothing, comforting. “I don’t intend to leave you, my friend. I will spend the night on your floor should you want me to.”

Athos blinks his eyes open, glad for the alley’s shadows. “I do not want you to sleep on the floor.”

Porthos kisses his temple. “My bed is bigger. You wanna go to mine then?”

“Yes,” Athos decides, briefly closes his eyes again. “I want that.”

 

Athos is not entirely sure how they make it through the city and to Porthos’ lodgings. He has no memory of navigating the streets, no memory of passing by the usual landmarks, or even other people.

All he is aware of is Porthos’ body beside his own, of Porthos’ grip on his shoulder, carefully avoiding his neck. Athos would very much like to twist his body around, lean into Porthos and bury his face in the crook of his neck, hide from everything including himself. But that is hardly possible in public, even if Porthos would probably allow it.

At first Athos does not even register they have arrived at their destination. Only when Porthos closes a door behind them, and walks him through a dimly lit room and towards a bed does he realize that there isn’t any need for self-control any more.

All Porthos does when Athos latches on to him is ask him not to rip his new shirt, but he goes down onto the bed readily, gathers Athos in his arms and holds him. He allows Athos to kiss him, kisses back with restrained passion but open affection, light and sweet, almost teasing.

Athos knows why Porthos doesn’t give him more, knows it’s his own fault, that he pushed Porthos away one too many times; so he does not dare ask for what he needs. He’ll make do with whatever Porthos is willing to give him. He’s used to much less than this; but his confession took so much out of him that he feels empty, carved-out and hollow – desperate for Porthos’ warmth to fill him up.

The layers of clothing between them are suddenly not just an inconvenience but an obstacle that needs to be overcome. Athos knows it’s wrong, distinctly remembers telling Porthos that it cannot happen again, but that does not change the fact that he finds himself unbuttoning the leather of Porthos’ uniform, shoving his hands underneath and into the skin-warm fabric of his new shirt.

“I’m ‘ere,” Porthos tells him, voice hushed and smooth, lets his hands stroke over Athos’ back. “I‘m ‘ere, it’s all good.”

Athos lets his voice wash over him and sighs, feels heavy despite his hollow bones, held in place and weighed down by Porthos, and when Porthos grabs his wrists and pulls his hands out of his shirt, he doesn’t fight it, does not try to get loose.

He _wants_ to be held, after all. He doesn’t particularly care how.

But Porthos is still too gentle, lets go far too soon – even goes so far as to bring some distance between them so he can look Athos in the eyes. “I have a fuzzy idea where this is goin’, but I really need to hear you say it.”

Athos blinks at him, expression blank – and then he understands Porthos’ meaning and feels a flush rise to his cheeks. “You know that I cannot do that.”

Porthos’ mouth twists into an uncomfortable smile. “Then maybe I should sleep above the covers tonight, eh?”

Athos closes his eyes, tries to come up with a way to get what he needs without having to ask for it. “I would never … blame you … for letting nature run its course.”

“Ah, that’s not good enough, my friend,” he hears Porthos say. “For you see – I could still blame myself. I fear you have to tell me what you want from me. You’ve changed your mind so often already.”

Athos bites his lip, still keeps his eyes closed. He knows that he could make it through the night by himself. All he’d need were a few bottles of wine. And he knows that if he asks Porthos to stay with him that he would do that – that he would comfort him in a manner entirely devoid of sexual pleasure and thus completely free from shame.

“I want you to disrobe me,” he hears himself say. “And yourself as well. Please.”

The words do not have the time to settle in the room between them, to grow stale and cold and collect dust. Porthos moves before Athos has fully realized that he’s uttered them, puts both of his hands on Athos, gently grips his arms. “You’re sure? I wasn't askin' for _permission_ , you know? I just need to know what you _want_.”

“You know what I want,” Athos whispers back. “I told you.”

“That’s what you like,” Porthos says. “It doesn’t mean you want it from me, and even if it did, it doesn’t mean you want it from me right _now_.”

Athos blinks his eyes open, stares at him, and is rewarded with a tentative smile. “You still want me to get us both naked?”

Athos nods. He wants that more than anything now.

“Alright.” Porthos lets his breath out slowly and then sits up, gets off the bed. Athos watches him strip out of his uniform, lets his eyes roam over every exposed inch of skin. It does not matter that he had more than one opportunity to do just that during the day – there’s intent behind Porthos’ movements now.

He strips fast and methodically, and returns to the bed in nothing but his undergarments, rids Athos of his boots. It feels peculiar, being undressed while sober, and Athos finds that he has trouble keeping still. He hesitates but then sits up as well, unbuttons his uniform himself.

“Gettin’ impatient?” Porthos grins at him, fingers busy with unlacing Athos’ trousers, and Athos finds himself smiling back.

“Are you complaining?”

“Never.” Porthos winks and gets on with his task, helps Athos out of his uniform and shirt before he rids him of his trousers. He doesn’t return to the bed right away, remains standing next to it far longer than Athos deems necessary or desirable.

“You still want me to join you?” he finally asks, and Athos smiles again.

He does not understand why Porthos feels the need to be so careful with him. He knows the truth now, after all, knows who Athos is and what he’d let Porthos do to him – should know that there’s no need for hesitation, no need at all.

“Yes,” Athos says, has a vague idea that Porthos will not lie down next to him if he keeps quiet. “I still want you to join me.”

Porthos smiles back at him and finally lies down, carefully pulls Athos into his arms. “Like this?”

“Like this,” Athos agrees, and lets his eyes fall shut again. He feels exhaustion creep into his bones, and try as he might, he cannot fight it back down.

So he pushes his face into the crook of Porthos’ neck, clings closer to him and pushes his hips forward. “You can … just do whatever you please. I won’t complain, I promise.”

“I’m already doin' exactly as I please, you fool,” Porthos admonishes him. “And now shut up and go to sleep.”

Athos huffs, not entirely sure if this counts as an order he’s supposed to follow without at least a token complaint. “Are you being a mother-hen again?”

“I keep telling you, I’m a cock,” Porthos whispers into his ear, and Athos is perfectly able to _hear_ him grinning – falls asleep with his lips stretched into a little grin of his own.

 

Athos wakes with Porthos’ heat at his back, half on top of him, pushing him down into the mattress. It is early in the morning, the sunlight pale in the room, and Athos’ head is frighteningly clear.

He remembers everything that took place on the previous day, remembers his confession to Porthos and his request to be taken to Porthos’ bed afterwards. He’s feeling guilty about that, but not as guilty as he’s feeling about the heavy heat between his legs as a result of finding himself trapped beneath Porthos’ body.

Strangely enough there’s a sort of peaceful resignation underneath that guilt. Confession never afforded him any peace or relief before, not when confiding to a man of the cloth; but unburdening himself to Porthos has left him with an elevating sensation of serenity he does not think he’s ever experienced before.

Perhaps it is the knowledge of sharing his past with a friend – a friend who did not condemn but forgive him, who still thinks him worthy, even though he should not.

Or perhaps it is the prospect of a future no longer utterly devoid of … He has no clear idea what. What he had with her he’ll never have again, does not even want to. He’s too afraid to sink to such depths once more.

He does not love Porthos the way he loved her, isn’t sure he knows how to, anymore. Porthos doesn’t make him feel weak the way she did, although he does put his self-control to the test, again and again.

But with Porthos, it doesn’t feel so _wrong_ giving in – doesn’t feel wrong now, when he pushes his hips back, up and against the heavy body on top of him.

Not once has Porthos blamed or belittled him for his sins; he treats them in fact so much like common matters of everyday life that Athos can almost trick himself into a state of grudging acceptance.

He shifts his hips back again, just a fraction. It’s barely possible to move with Porthos keeping him trapped, and Athos bites his lip when the friction is nevertheless enough to send a spike of heat down his spine.

His moving around is also enough to wake Porthos, who breathes hotly down his neck and then proceeds to nuzzle it. “Mornin’,” he rumbles, and Athos becomes aware of a hand sneaking round his torso to splay over his stomach. “Ye sleep well?”

Athos bites his lip a little harder before he attempts a nod. “Yes,” he confirms, voice carefully smooth over the persistent heat still spiking up under his skin, “I did.”

Porthos hums and lets his thumb stroke back and forth across the sensitive skin of Athos’ stomach. “And did I just imagine you rubbin' up against me, or should we do somethin’ about that?”

His words trickle down Athos’ spine like champagne, hot-cold and tingling, and he squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly conflicted again. Porthos’ hand on his stomach splays wider when he doesn’t answer him, rough palm and fingertips gently pressing into his skin. “Athos?”

“Touch me,” Athos whispers then, has to choke out the words, has to fight for every syllable. “Hold me down.”

Porthos’ hand immediately moves lower on his stomach and between his legs, cups him over the fabric of his undergarments. “As you wish.”

He presses up against Athos from behind, pushes his hips forward. When Athos realizes that Porthos is hard as well it twists the heat beneath his skin, makes it spiral out and has him push his face into the mattress to muffle his moans.

“Shht,” Porthos breathes out right next to his ear. “I’ve got you.”

He unlaces Athos’ undergarments and moves his hand inside, slowly and patiently, again so different from what Athos expects that it only adds to the pleasure. He kisses Athos’ neck when he closes his hand around his cock, then lets his teeth scrape over the sensitive skin, and Athos moans louder, and his mind starts to drift.

His legs spread automatically when Porthos pushes his hips forward again, and he tries to push back, feels electrified each time the pressure against his ass builds up, and he feels the heat of Porthos’ arousal through the fabric separating them.

Porthos’ hand is hot and rough on his cock, but his touch is gentle. He moves his palm up and down Athos’ length, lets his thumb glide over the head after each upstroke, spreads the pre-come. His movements are slow and deliberate, and when his free hand comes to rest on Athos’ neck, when his fingers circle around and splay over his skin, Athos’ eyes roll back into his head even before Porthos’ grip becomes firm and controlling.

“You like this?” Porthos asks him. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” Athos confirms, almost sobs the word into the mattress, and when Porthos hips snap forward, there’s a hint of brutality in the action this time.

Athos moans and lets himself be pushed, gives in gratefully. Porthos doesn’t hurt him, is merely _rough_ , simply being himself, and Athos feels _safe_ surrendering to him despite the ease with which Porthos could harm him.

He’s trapped between the heat around his cock and the one at his back, doesn’t know which he wants more of; so he lies still, pliant and submissive. Porthos’ grip on his neck is constantly shifting, his fingers circling back and forth in tandem with the push of his hips, but he never lets go. Not once does he relinquish the steady pressure of his fingertips.

It’s getting harder and harder to breathe being trapped like this, with his arousal steadily climbing until it’s so high up that the air is getting too thin for his lungs. He remembers feeling like this, helpless and close to falling – what he does not remember is the strange sense of security attached to it.

Porthos won’t let him fall.

He moans Porthos’ name, choked and overwhelmingly grateful, spreads his legs further, wants to feel him closer. Porthos stops moving immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

There’s the distinctive sound of panic underlying his words, and Athos shudders, shakes his head. “No, no you did not – not at all.”

Tendrils of heat are still entwining him, binding him, but he manages to reach back, to pull his undergarments down and off his ass. “Please,” he whispers, “continue.”

For a heartbeat or two Porthos neither moves nor speaks. Athos feels him breathing against the back of his neck, sure and steady. Then Porthos’ lips graze his skin, chase a wave of tingling arousal all the way down his spine. “Porthos,” he whispers, pushes his hips back, desperate for contact, “please.”

“Yeah,” Porthos whispers back, and then he moves, gently rubs his groin against Athos’ naked ass, “yeah, alright.”

He’s still covered, still wearing his undergarments, and it’s not enough, not nearly close enough, so Athos reaches back again, his fingers fumbling over the fabric covering Porthos’ hips. “Porthos …”

Porthos stills once more, and when his lips graze over Athos neck this time, they’re parted. Athos shudders when he licks a wet stripe across his skin, and his mouth falls open around a moan.

“What do you need?” Porthos asks, voice rough with emotion. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just …” Athos shudders again, cannot believe what he is about to say, “… just make me feel it … make … make me feel you.”

Athos expects many things to happen after uttering those words, what he does not expect is for Porthos to kiss his earlobe and respond with a simple, “I can do that.”

Before Athos knows what’s happening to him Porthos has pulled down his own undergarments and is pushing his hips forward once more. He’s all heat, rubbing up against Athos’ naked ass, and it feels so, _so good_ , much better than Athos could ever have anticipated.

He bites his lip, but the moan escaping his throat is still very audible, sounds breathless and _wrecked_ – must tell Porthos all too clearly how he’s making him feel.

Instead of teasing or taunting him about it, Porthos simply keeps moving, drives his hips forward again and again, in tandem with the movement of his hand, still tight around Athos’ leaking cock.

The experience is new, and thus, rather strange.

He’s starting to feel feverish, more so each time Porthos’ hard cock brushes up against his ass; and he tries to spread his legs, wants him closer still.

In a way he’s used to feeling like this, to the arousal spreading inside him until there’s no room left for anything else. What he isn’t used to is the yearning for _more_ that’s eating him up despite all that.

He doesn’t remember ever being this greedy, the sensation of longing for more instead of being overwhelmed by what he already has.

He cannot stop moaning Porthos’ name, cannot keep still any more – needs to do something, anything, to turn this into a reality he can handle.

Porthos stops moving when he notices his struggle, brings his head down next to Athos’ so he can whisper in his ear, “You alright, my friend?”

Athos cannot help himself, he has to kiss him, although it only makes matters worse. The way he has to twist his head around is uncomfortable, and he whines when the strain turns unbearable and he has to stop.

Porthos, practical as ever, simply turns him around. He stretches him out on his back on the mattress and lies down on top of him, immediately kisses him again. Athos doesn’t even have time to be properly terrified at the sudden change in position, at the fact that they are face to face now, that Porthos can _see_ what he is doing to him.

It’s exquisite, this way, with his weight on top of Athos, his heat all along his front. Athos spreads his legs automatically, puts his arms around Porthos and his hands on his back, glad that he can hold on to him without fear of being pushed away or ridiculed.

Porthos is moving above him, albeit slowly, keeps up a steady rhythm, a delicious friction that Athos enjoys far more than he probably should. Their kissing makes it impossible to hold on to any shame about that, though, makes it impossible for him to concentrate on anything else beside the feeling of Porthos’ lips against his own, beside the devious movement of his tongue, far more skilled than Athos could have anticipated.

His lust rises steadily, despite the lack of pressure on his neck, despite feeling safe instead of feeling trapped, and he doesn’t even realize how vocal he’s being, how the moans keep spilling over his lips, swallowed up and muffled by Porthos’ mouth.

It’s almost as if he’s never been touched before – and in a way he hasn’t. Not like this. Porthos’ hands roam over his skin, rough but gentle. He doesn’t pinch him, doesn’t scratch him, he merely _touches_.

And when he does bring his right back up to Athos’ neck, when he _does_ grab him hard enough to leave a mark, it comes accompanied by their kiss changing into the sweetest thing Athos has ever experienced.

The imbalance of sensation leaves him reeling, out of his depth and drunk with need, and he pushes his hips up and against Porthos’, so close to his release that he can feel it trickle up his spine.

And then he feels Porthos smiling against his lips, feels his thumb rub over his pulse, steady and deliciously powerful. “You need to come?”

All Athos can do is nod. Porthos promptly reaches down between them, takes them both in hand, and Athos almost chokes on his own breath. The velvety feel of Porthos’ cock next to his own is a stark contrast to the rough palm encircling them, and Athos fears he might not make it through this encounter with his wits intact.

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos whispers and kisses the corner of his mouth, “it’s good, innit?”

He starts to move his hand, up and down, slow and careful, looks down at Athos’ face to gauge his reaction, dark eyes full of lust, affection, care.

Athos tries to catch his breath, bites his lip to keep the treacherous noise trapped inside his throat. But he cannot, and it spills out, while he lets his head fall back and surrenders.

A heartbeat later he hears Porthos groan, and then he hears his voice, rough, but honeyed with arousal, “God, you should see yourself – I’ve never seen anythin’ like it.”

He kisses Athos’ throat, softly at first, and then with rising confidence, lets his lips and then his teeth graze over the sensitive skin, licks a wet stripe over Athos pulse.

Athos comes so hard that his vision whites out. He feels Porthos moving above him, slowly but steadily, and gradually becomes aware of holding on to him, of his fingers digging into Porthos’ skin, unable to let go.

He still feels like he’s riding the high of his release, the whole of his body tingling with pleasure, and when Porthos groans and spills as well, when he feels Porthos’ release coat his skin and mingle with his own, it’s almost as if he’s overcome by a second wave, not quite so high as the first, but just as strong.

The air is slow to return to his lungs, but it does, fills him up gradually, and he thinks that at least half of it might be Porthos’ breath, that it is Porthos’ heartbeat that keeps his own so steady.

“You good?” Porthos murmurs next to his ear, and he sounds utterly satisfied, exhausted – but still he cares about Athos’ welfare, still he remembers to ask.

It makes Athos feel a little bit like crying.


	4. Chapter 4

Life, as comparably short as his may yet have been, has taught Athos that pleasure and pain can not only go hand in hand but dance a merry little dance with each other – often with the result of spinning heads and bleeding feet.

Despite that knowledge he did not understand until now how perilously close happiness and sorrow can be. Laying in bed with Porthos he finds himself mourning what he only so briefly had with her, is suddenly overcome by vivid memories of how her skin felt under his fingertips.

For the first time in many years remembering does not hurt as much, does not cut into him like broken shards of glass, but is softened by Porthos’ presence.

Porthos is warm and heavy on top of him, taking deep, measured breaths; and he feels Porthos’ chest expanding against his own, feels his heartbeat. No matter how old he gets, should he ever manage to progress into fragile age and declining wits, he will never forget this moment.

He will never forget the way the mattress feels underneath him, how the morning sun falls into the room and casts his light over them. It is still early, it seems, although it feels to Athos that hours have passed since he woke up.

“Athos,” Porthos rumbles above him, voice tinged with worry that Athos has failed to answer him for quite a while now, “you good?”

“I am,” he says, his own voice rough, almost giving up on him under the strain of emotion weighing him down. It is difficult to lift his head, but he perseveres and kisses Porthos on the cheek. “Thank you.”

When Athos lies his head back down Porthos is blinking at him, eyes round and slightly surprised – and then he grins. “Love it when you get all gentlemanly on me.”

Athos looks at him, takes in his face, his scars and unruly curls, and feels his chest expand with helpless affection. He holds his breath when Porthos lifts his hand to lightly stroke his fingertips across his neck, briefly closes his eyes.

“I left marks,” Porthos whispers, sounding contrite, and Athos clears his throat, re-opens his eyes to look up at him.

“I wanted you to.”

Porthos kisses him again, sweet and almost chaste, and then moves off him, takes his weight but not his warmth away. He lies down next to Athos, rolls on his side and drapes his arm over Athos’ chest, eyes soft and content. “That’s alright then I guess.”

Athos doesn’t even hesitate to move closer to him and burrow into his warmth, press his face into the crook of his neck, is still floating too high, too much at ease to worry about what they’ve done.

He revels in the afterglow, in Porthos’ warmth and taste and smell, would gladly stay like this for hours.

“Don’t get cross, but I have to clean us up real quick,” he hears Porthos whisper, and then Porthos dares to leave him alone in bed, dares to return with a wet, cold cloth he rubs along his front, and Athos groans, distinctly displeased.

Porthos chuckles and leans over him to soothe him with a kiss, returns to the bed and pulls him into his arms once more. It takes a while to get warm again, and Athos tries to use the time to clear his head, to decide whether he should be ashamed of what happed.

For some strange reason, he cannot quite bring himself up to the task, although he can almost hear her voice inside his head, telling him she is not surprised to find him fallen so low.

He’s not sure she’s right about him, anymore – not while he’s so close to Porthos.

He knows it can and will not last, knows that the shame will find him again – possibly when he least expects it – but right now he’s content. He closes his eyes, sighs against Porthos’ skin, and nuzzles him, moves his face lower, lets his forehead rest against Porthos’ chest.

Porthos, humouring him, does not say a single word, simply takes a deep breath and stretches, lifts his hand to rest it on the back of Athos’ head, rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s a simple gesture, intimate and caressing, and Athos feels himself drowning in the sensation as he is used to drowning in bottles and bottles of wine, his mind surrendering, calm and quiet for once.

There is a difference though. Porthos’ touch may eliminate everything surrounding them, but it does not eliminate Porthos himself. It drowns out all the noise inside Athos’ head until they’re the only ones left … Porthos and him together, instead of Athos alone on an island made up of bare rock and sheer cliffs.

And then Porthos’ hand glides lower, across his neck and onto his back, and his fingertips brush over Athos’ scars, one by one, navigate them blindly, by touch alone, as if Porthos has memorized them, as if he’s always known where they are.

The very idea scares Athos, the idea that Porthos knows what those scars are and where they come from – that he knows that Athos was her slave in mind, body and soul. He does not want Porthos to know that there was a time when he was so thoroughly under her spell that the idea _appealed_ to him, that he was proud of the marks she left on him.

“This is nice,” he hears Porthos muse, and his fingertip idly strokes along another scar. “We should do it more often.”

Athos relaxes. There is a question in those words, and a choice, and Athos, fully aware that he depends on Porthos much more than he should, lifts his head to kiss him, softly and with closed lips. “I am of a similar opinion.”

“Only similar?” Porthos asks, and his free hand finds Athos back as well, strokes up and down, warm and strong and far too gentle. He’s grinning now, knowing that he _has_ him, that Athos is his, and Athos finds that he is smiling in answer. Because finding himself in Porthos’ clutches may not be so bad, knowing what he receives in return.

“You’re a cock,” Athos tells him, voice dry, kisses him before he can get in a word of his own.

Porthos grunts and chuckles into the kiss, and gives it back, and then another, and another. He keeps his eyes closed and his voice doesn’t rise above a whisper. “It’s gettin’ late. We have to get up soon.”

Athos’ left brow rises all on its own, and he keeps his face carefully blank when he sees Porthos taking a peek at him. “But we already went, did we not?”

The sally makes Porthos grin even wider than before. “If you wanna explain to the Captain the reason we’re late –“ He interrupts himself when he sees the smile vanish from Athos’ eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I can keep a secret, despite what you might think. And yours definitely better than mine if you want me to.”

Athos bites his lip, avoids his gaze. “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply –“

“Oh shut up, you didn’t even say anythin’.” He moves his hand back into Athos’ hair, caresses him absent-mindedly. “So. I guess we won’t be tellin’ anyone?”

Athos is a grown man, a soldier of countless battles and has looked death in the eyes more often he’d care to remember, but right now he would very much like to hide his face in Porthos’ chest and pretend the world was not real. “You know that we cannot tell a single soul –“

“Alright,” he hears Porthos agree, far too readily. “Then we won’t.”

“I mean it,” Athos says. “Not even Aramis.”

Next to him, Porthos freezes. “That’s … pretty much nonsense, you know that, right?”

“Just …” Athos takes a deep breath, “… just don’t tell him. Please.”

Porthos blinks at him. “But he’ll know. He always knows. And more importantly: he won’t care.”

The truth in those words does nothing to alleviate Athos’ firm conviction that Aramis must not be told of this. He looks up at Porthos, watches an impressive number of conflicting emotions glide over his friend’s expressive features, and swallows. “Do not tell him,” he says again. “Please.”

Porthos grunts and huffs, is for the first time thoroughly disgruntled at something Athos asks of him. “Alright,” he finally gives in. “But I don’t like it. At all.”

“I understand,” Athos tells him quietly. “I will make it up to you.”

Porthos grumbles some more, but then he leans forward and presses a kiss to Athos’ forehead. “You’re a bloody moron. Come on then – let’s go and take him out for breakfast. I wanna see how long it takes him.”

 

It takes Aramis about half an hour. They’re sitting in the garrison, have occupied their usual table. One moment Aramis is happily engaged in teasing Athos for partaking in actual breakfast, eating actual food, and the next his eyes narrow, flick back and forth between Athos and Porthos as if he suspects them of _murder_.

Athos has no idea what he did wrong. He is not even particularly close to Porthos – took in fact great pains to keep the perfect distance all morning. Even now Porthos is sitting opposite of him while Aramis is on his right.

“His fingerprints are on your neck,” Aramis hisses, directly into Athos’ ear. “Why are his fingerprints on your neck? What happened?”

He sounds worried and upset, and Athos realizes that Aramis did in fact notice that something has happened. But the conclusions he is drawing are somewhat off the right path and so far into the undergrowth that he has lost all sunlight and is now stumbling around in the dark.

Next he’ll be falling into brambles. He usually does.

The ease with which Aramis has identified Porthos’ fingerprints vaguely impresses Athos, although he has to admit that the size of Porthos’ hands alone is somewhat telling. Not many men have such an impressive _grasp_ on things as Porthos does.

Memories of what Porthos grasped this morning besides his neck accompany that thought, and Athos clears his throat. “He was … merely steadying me.”

Aramis makes a gurgling sound of disbelieve. “He usually manages to do that without _choking_ you – what in heaven’s name did you do?”

Across from them Porthos is calling out to the new stable boy to be careful with the frisky mare he’s currently brushing off, and thus completely unaware of their conversation.

“Why are you assuming that I did anything?” Athos asks languidly, already knowing the answer.

Aramis is fast and ready in supplying it. “Because this is _Porthos_ we’re talking about. He wouldn’t hurt you if you did not give him ample reason.”

Athos nods, granting this explanation its due consideration. “You’re right. He would not. And he _did_ not. Or do you think he would be his usual self now if we had quarrelled recently?”

Aramis opens his mouth to answer, and then Captain Treville appears on the balustrade across from them. “I am very sorry to cut your breakfast short, gentlemen, but I have work for you. The Queen has requested you as her escort. You are to meet her immediately – on horseback.”

Athos shoots Aramis a reproachful glare, and Aramis very wisely shuts his mouth.

Treville looks around the yard. “Where is d’Artagnan?”

“Not yet here, Captain,” Athos speaks up. “Should we … collect him on our way to meet the Queen?”

“You do that,” Treville nods, squinting in the early morning sun. “And please, inform him that punctuality is a trait he’d do well to acquire.” With that he turns and retreats back into his office, presumably to take a nap, and Athos stands up from the table and puts on his hat.

“Take what food you can carry, gentlemen. I fear it’s going to be a long day.”

Days spent escorting royalty tend to be.

Especially when the royalty in question requests to be taken into the woods for a picnic surrounded by at least twenty of her courtiers. Thankfully, they are not the only guards commandeered to protect the cavalcade of horses and carriages making their way along the dusty roads, but since the majority of the other guards is overwhelmingly _red_ , this fact does not afford them any pleasure.

Now and again Athos feels Aramis’ eyes on him, in varying stages between worried and suspicious, and it almost amuses him how far off the mark his friend is in this instance.

It’s almost as if he’d never suspect Athos of being capable of sins of the flesh, least of all sins involving Porthos. A depressing thought, for some strange reason. By all means it should ease the burden on Athos’ mind, not make it worse.

Porthos, for once in his life a better actor than anyone would give him credit for – or, far more likely, simply free from any qualms or worries – is spending their ride close to one particular carriage, making faces at the children said carriage contains and endearing himself to their mother.

Athos finds himself staring over at him more often than not, and every time he looks away, he finds Aramis staring at him in return. Mercifully d’Artagnan does not seem to have caught on that something is amiss – is too lost in his own gloom to pay attention, and depends on his horse to carry him safely to their destination.

It is a fine day, mild and sunny. Once they have reached the woods, and the branches overhanging the road guard them from the more aggressive beams of sunlight, Athos almost starts enjoying the ride. His enjoyment lasts until they reach the destination the Queen has chosen for her picnic – a clearing in the woods, surrounded by tall trees, wreathed in green-golden light.

It is Aramis who helps her out of her carriage and arranges her blanket to her satisfaction, supplies her with cushions to sit on. Athos, dismounting his horse, contemplates taking him to the side and kicking some sense into him … and then he notices the smell.

He turns around abruptly. The reigns drop from his senseless fingers as he starts walking, slowly and as if he was hypnotized, all else forgotten.

The ground is giving beneath his boots, softens his steps, and he would not make a sound if it weren’t for last year’s fallen leaves rustling beneath him as he makes his way through the trees, the sounds of lively merriment dimming behind him.

It is peaceful and quiet when he reaches the riverbed, sky blue and dotted with clouds high above him, birds singing, unafraid of his intrusion into their midst. The ground beside the river is covered in the same blue as the sky above, an ocean of flowers, and he’s never seen them bloom so late in the year, takes a deep breath, despite his fear of drowning.

Forget-me-nots. He wonders now and then if their name is mere coincidence, or if they were named the way they are to make his torment complete, to mock him for his inability to let go of the past.

Their smell floods him with memories, a huge dark wave of regret and sorrow mingled with shame, so familiar that it almost feels like coming home. He felt the same when he set foot into his old house, looked at the pictures, was once more surrounded by the ruins of his happiness. And he’s just as helpless against the memories’ onslaught now as he was then, lifts his face towards the sky and goes down on his knees.

The flowers’ scent is stronger, suffocating so close to the ground, and he remembers her touch, suddenly, remembers how her fingers felt in his hair – how her nails felt leaving marks on his chest, his back, and the inside of his thighs … how he gave himself up for her to do with him as she pleased.

Automatically, he reaches up to touch his neck, to feel the ghost of Porthos’ fingertips on his skin. It’s not enough to prevent the venom from creeping back into his veins, but it keeps it at bay, keeps a weak line of defence around his heart while his head is steadily emptying to be refilled with pictures of the past.

He doesn’t know how much time he spends by the river, how long he remains on his knees between the flowers, staring up at an empty sky. He doesn’t notice Porthos arrival, doesn’t hear him coming closer.

But when Porthos crouches down beside him, when Athos hears his voice, low and worried, it reaches him like the warmth of a fire reaches you after a long day out in the cold.

It slowly thaws the icy shards still slicing through his memory, and he turns towards Porthos out of instinct, blinks at his worried face, uncomprehending at first, unable to make out the words he’s saying.

It’s his own name that finally breaches his stupor, accompanied by Porthos’ hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. “Athos, come on, say somethin’, you’re frightenin’ me!”

Later, much, much later, Athos will describe the fact that “Porthos” is the fist word coming to him in this situation as perfect symmetry.

He takes a deep breath, like a man who was about to drown fills his lungs with desperate gulps of air, and then he says it again, “Porthos.”

“Godsdamnit,” he hears Porthos swear, and then he’s in his arms, pressed against his chest, and for a moment he’s close enough that the flowers’ smell does not reach him anymore. He takes another deep breath, forehead leaning against Porthos’ chest, and it helps, helps him clear his mind and find back to himself.

He shivers violently, ashamed of what he was reduced to by nothing more than a familiar smell, by something as fragile as a flower. He cannot bring himself to let go of Porthos, much less to push him away. “I’m sorry,” he slurs, humiliated at how drunk he sounds although he is painfully sober.

Porthos merely holds him closer, shushes him. “It’s alright, just tell me what happened.”

Athos’ lungs start to hurt under the heaving breaths he’s still taking, and white spots start dancing in front of his closed lids, multiplying. “The flowers,” he gasps. “The smell.”

Porthos makes another shushing noise, and then his hands are on Athos’ chest, press down gently and steadily. “You need to calm down, my friend.”

Athos squeezes his eyes shut so hard that the white spots behind his lids turn into bursts of light, but it does not help, he’s still taking in more air than he can handle. He nearly chokes when Porthos grabs him suddenly, when he lifts him off his knees, off the ground and carries him out of the sun – away from the flowers.

It’s much cooler in the shadows beneath the trees, and Porthos puts him down with his back to a trunk, pushes him upright with both hands on his shoulders. “Steady … steady now. We’re out of the flowers, it’s alright now.”

If he weren’t so busy catching his breath, Athos would be tempted to laugh.

Out of the flowers indeed.

He lifts his own hands, his movements sluggish, the effort unfamiliar and a strain on his muscles. Once he’s able to grab the front of Porthos’ shirt he feels a little bit better, slumps against the bark of the tree at his back, breathes more easily.

It no longer hurts, and the spots dancing in front of his eyes aren’t quite so bright anymore.

The shame is overwhelming.

“That’s better,” he hears Porthos murmur, feels his hands on his shoulders, rubbing nervously back and fourth. “That’s it, you’re doin’ good.”

The words remind Athos of a different kind of shame, and he groans, lifts his hands once more to make a grab for Porthos’ wrists and pull him off of him. “Stop.”

Porthos moves immediately, moves away, gives him all the room he could ever need, and Athos realizes that he’s not only being a fool but recklessly stupid. “Come back,” he chokes against the rising panic in his chest, “please come back.”

He feels Porthos moving, and then he’s returned to him, towering above him and blocking out the sun. “I’m ‘ere,” he whispers, “it’s alright, I’m ‘ere.” His voice is soft, hushed and so full of concern that Athos feels guilty on top of everything else.

“Sorry,” he says again, but his breathing is finally slowing down, allowing him to notice the tears spilling out of the corners of his eyes, running down his cheeks. “I am so sorry.”

He feels Porthos move closer, careful and slow, and then Porthos’ hands are on his face, are cradling his head. Porthos’ thumbs gently brush back and forth beneath his eyes, wipe his tears away, are rough and warm on his skin, and Athos feels his sanity return to him, feels it settle over him like an old, worn coat.

“Thank you,” he murmurs once he feels steady enough to speak without wavering, and opens his eyes.

Porthos is looking back at him, and his expression is open as ever, worried and fond and relieved.

“I am back,” Athos says and takes a carefully controlled breath. “I am back now.”

“You want me to let go?” Porthos asks, stills all movements, and Athos shakes his head as much as Porthos’ grip on him allows.

“Not yet.”

Everything goes quiet for a few minutes. Or maybe hours, Athos cannot be sure. He keeps looking at Porthos, needs him as a fixed point to concentrate on, someone to match his breathing to.

“I remember Aramis bein' like this,” Porthos says after a while, tone conversational. “After Savoy. I’ve seen it with lots of soldiers. This was the first time I saw it happenin’ in a field of flowers, though.” He leans forward, kisses Athos’ forehead. “You must really hate those flowers, eh?”

Athos huffs, surprises himself with the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, as weak as it may be – surprises himself even more when he finds his voice. “You have no idea.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Porthos agrees. He leans his forehead against Athos’, helps him match their breathing. “You gonna tell me?”

Athos takes a hasty breath, and Porthos’ thumbs start stroking across his face again. “Shht, only if you wanna. I’m not forcin’ you.”

Athos remembers the peaceful calm that took over his mind after he last confessed to Porthos and briefly closes his eyes. “She … she loved those flowers,” he whispers, swallows against the rising bile in his throat. “She … she even … she even had a little bouquet of them when I … when I had her hang.”

His voice breaks over the last word. The birds keep singing persistently in the silence that follows

“Well, that explains it,” Porthos says eventually, voice quiet and smooth like undisturbed water, soothing Athos’ nerves better than anything else ever could. “No wonder you hate those bloomin’ flowers.”

The laugh bubbling up Athos’ throat is hoarse and desperate and sounds more like a groan, but it makes him feel better. At least he does not feel like he’s going to be sick any more.

Porthos has moved his right hand to the top of Athos’ head, is stroking his hair, gentle and careful – makes him feel just as peaceful as Athos hoped he would.

When Athos looks at him he sees that Porthos has closed his eyes, and he finds himself lost, his gaze arrested and fixed on Porthos’ face. Athos will never know what he did to deserve this man who keeps himself so quiet and still for him. Porthos was made for laughing, his nature is loud and honest, even violent at times, and yet he is the gentlest soul Athos has ever met.

“We need to get back,” Athos whispers when he realizes he has been staring at his friend for far too long. “Our disappearance will likely have raised comment by now.”

“You ready to go back?” Porthos asks him, pulls away and straightens to get a proper look at his face.

Athos manages a faint smile. “I think so, yes.”

Porthos reaches out once more, lays his hand on Athos’ cheek, lifts his chin. “You look like hell.”

Athos huffs. “I feel like it, too.”

Porthos’ brows draw into a frown, and he straightens his shoulders, takes in their surroundings. “Wait here.”

He gets up slowly, moves like a hunter careful not to alert his prey, and Athos wonders whether he himself is the prey in question, whether he managed to give Porthos the impression that Athos de la Fère is a fragile, skittish thing, not to be upset.

He watches Porthos get up and walk away towards the river, watches him walk through the flowers. It may be his imagination, but it seems to Athos that Porthos’ tread, while never particularly light, turns especially heavy among the plants, as if he’s attempting to stomp them into the ground.

Once he’s reached the water, Porthos crouches down, takes off his bandana and holds it in the stream. Then he straightens, wrings it out, and marches through the flowers once more. Once he’s back at Athos’ side, he crouches down beside him, wet bandana in hand.

“Here,” he says, holding it out to Athos. “Wash your face.”

Athos gratefully takes it from him and then wipes it over his face. The fabric is rather rough, but the water is cool, feels good on his burning eyes.

“Better?” he hears Porthos ask when he does not immediately resurface from the bandana. Athos nods and takes a deep breath.

“Much better. Thank you.”

He keeps a slight pressure up, takes a few deep breaths with the soothing cloth draped over his face, and does not even take it off when he hears a pair of boots come scurrying closer.

“Any chance of him falling into brambles?” he asks, and Porthos grunts, amusement thick in his voice when he answers.

“None at all. Sorry.”

“What happened? Is he hurt?” Aramis falls to his knees beside Athos, touches his shoulder and then his thigh, and Athos finds himself smiling behind the secure shield the bandana offers him.

“I am fine,” he says. “No need to worry.”

Aramis sputters, and his grip on Athos’ thigh becomes somewhat punishing. “No need? Porthos, tell me what is going on! What are you doing here?”

“And here I thought my headache could not get any worse,” Athos drawls and finally pulls the bandana off his face. “You are insufferable mother-hens, both of you.”

Porthos grunts and takes his bandana back when Athos hands it to him, does not say a word to confirm or deny the excuse Athos has come up with. He looks uncomfortable though, always does when forced into conceiting those he loves, and one glance at Aramis confirms that he’s seen it, too.

“What are you not telling me? What in heaven’s name is going on?”

“We should go back,” Porthos says gruffly. “Before the Whelp notices we’re all gone and gets lost lookin' for us.”

It is a weak attempt at distracting Aramis, but Athos is grateful for it nevertheless, shoots Porthos a significant look he can only hope Porthos interprets correctly.

“He won’t,” Aramis hisses. “I told him to stay put. And now I’d like to get an answer. Headaches have never before caused you to leave your post, Athos. Not once, in all the years I’ve known you, have you allowed yourself such a lapse, no matter how much wine you’d had the previous night.”

“Aramis,” Porthos cuts in before Athos could react. He doesn’t say anything else, but his sharp tone of voice is more than sufficient, makes Aramis turn around to stare at him in amazement.

“Are you telling me to let this go?”

“I am,” Porthos confirms, unease written all over his features.

Athos feels sick to his stomach. He never meant to throw a wedge between these two, never meant to be the tool that pushes them apart.

He gets up, unsteady on his feet at first, and while Porthos makes an instant grab for his right elbow, Aramis reaches out for his left. It loosens something inside Athos, just a little.

“I came here for the flowers,” he says, gesturing at the little sea of blue in the clearing by the river. Aramis looks confused, but does not interrupt, and Athos continues. “My … wife –“ Aramis’ eyes widen, and the sudden alarm lining his features is almost comical. Athos clears his throat. “My wife was … _is_ rather fond of them. I fear their smell does not particularly agree with me anymore.”

Aramis opens his mouth, and then closes it, just to open it once more to yell at them, “And you could not tell me this right away? You had to make me worry? What did you think I would say? That I’d shame you for being human?”

Athos blinks at him in astonishment, needs a moment to find his voice. “I … do not know what I was thinking. Please accept my apologies.”

At first Aramis seems to be taken aback at receiving an actual apology, then he rolls his eyes at Athos’ choice of words; but his ruffled feathers smooth down, and the stormy expression leaves his features. “Yes, yes, of course I do. Now lets get back. Anne will worry.”

Athos huffs and glares at him. “You would do well to keep your distance from her.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, blissful in his ignorance, “you’ve been givin’ her the stare all mornin’. People are bound to notice.” He shoots a glance at Athos. “They always do.”

Athos experiences the sudden desire to bang his head against the nearest tree.

 

They return to the picnic grounds and are immediately intercepted by d’Artagnan who looks considerably flustered that they left him to fend for himself against such a number of high-born ladies. Athos cannot blame him. Those ladies eye d’Artagnan like hawks would a eye a freshly hatched chicken.

“Where have you been?” d’Artagnan asks, catches them at the edge of the clearing and stops them before they get into hearing range of the festivities.

Athos does not miss the way he tries to hide behind Porthos’ bigger frame, and lets his lips twitch into a smile. “Did you miss us?”

“He always does,” Aramis cuts in, eyes gently mocking. “Who wouldn’t?”

D’Artagnan doesn’t seem to be in the mood for their ribbing. “You could at least have taken me with you!” he hisses. “Or am I still too inexperienced for an impromptu game of hide and seek in the woods?”

“Far too inexperienced,” Porthos teases him and throws his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “I fear our set of rules would scandalize you.”

D’Artagnan tries to get free from his grip, but he gives up soon enough when he discovers the futility of this endeavour, and leans against Porthos instead, huffing. “Well, next time I want to come with you. I doubt your games could be more scandalizing than the things some of those ladies were whispering in my ear.”

Predictably, Aramis instantly takes lively interest in that. “Oh, do tell. This is something I want to hear!”

Porthos snorts and Athos glares, but they do not prevent Aramis from pulling d’Artagnan out from under Porthos’ arm and a little way away.

“He’s such a bad influence,” Porthos says, voice just loud enough so Athos can hear it. A fond grin lights up his eyes while they rest on Aramis and d’Artagnan. “I always loved that about him.”

Regarding that they’re currently in public, Athos finds it very inconvenient that Porthos invokes in him a rather strong urge to kiss his friend. Athos breathes through it and looks at Porthos from out of the corner of his eyes, keeps his voice just as low as Porthos did his, “He’s not the one who corrupted me.”

Porthos is quick to hear the smile behind the words, and he grins and winks at him. “Yeah, well … he taught me a lot over the years.”

Athos nods slowly, coats his words in dry dust, “I always found you two were spending too much time in each other’s company.”

Porthos’ grin only widens. “Ah. So you were jealous, is that it?”

Athos opens his mouth to answer when he becomes aware of someone staring at him. When he turns his head he sees Aramis, eyes round and wide open in astonishment, brows raised so high they almost disappear into his hairline.

“No,” Aramis says – to the confusion of d’Artagnan standing right next to him. “Surely not. You wouldn’t.”

Athos freezes. He can only imagine the guilty look on his face.

“What?” he hears d’Artagnan say, and it sounds like his voice is coming from miles away. “Who wouldn’t do what?”

“Oh drat,” Porthos says, thankfully still standing right next to Athos. “Not now.”

“I cannot _believe_ ,” Aramis starts, catches himself when he hears how loud he is and continues in a furious whisper, “that you kept this from me! How long has this been going on? When were you planning on telling me?”

“Telling you what?” d’Artagnan asks, horribly confused. “What did I miss?”

“Everything,” Athos cannot stop himself from saying. “Fortunately.”

Aramis’ eyes zero in on him as if Athos was on the wrong end of his musket. “That’s the reason for the bruises on your neck!”

Athos feels like the blood in his veins is turning to ice, cutting him open from inside.

Porthos clears his throat at this point, and intervenes. “Aramis.”

Aramis, although it should be entirely impossible, has the gall to look scandalized. “I will not keep quiet about this!”

“Rubbish!” Porthos growls and takes a step forward and towards Aramis. “Will you calm down! We didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m upset, too!” d’Artagnan throws in. “And I don’t even know why!”

Athos is briefly distracted by the look of utter confusion on his face, but then Aramis takes the remaining step between him and Porthos and straightens, again talking in the furious whisper that transports his anger all the better for forcing him to contain his volume. “He’s doing this to get back at me! To show me what happens when you cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed!” He swivels his head, stares at Athos. “Aren’t you?”

“What in hell’s name are you talkin’ about?” Porthos growls. “What would he want to get back at you for?”

The rough gravel in his voice gets Aramis back down to earth rather abruptly. He swallows, stares at Athos with a mixture of defiance and reproach in his dark eyes, and then both emotions get swallowed up by regret. “Nothing.”

“Oh no, don’t give me that,” Porthos grinds out, and Athos can hear how hard he has to fight to keep his anger controlled. “You don’t get to do that when you accuse our friend of taking revenge on you by –“ He stops himself and takes a deep breath, turns his head and looks at Athos.

He looks so torn about what he’s allowed to do and to say that it results in an almost physical ache all through Athos’ chest.

It’s d’Artagnan who defuses the situation by clearing his throat and stepping in between Aramis and Porthos. Either he is very, very brave or the most trusting soul Athos has ever met. “Maybe we … should discuss this later? In private?”

Nobody says anything in return, but then, nobody needs to. They have long ago learned how to communicate without words, and the angry silence that follows d’Artagnan’s suggestion speaks for itself.

They will discuss this later. In private. Come what may.


	5. Chapter 5

The picnic goes on forever. It does not, despite Athos’ mood, end in a thunderstorm. It ends pleasantly enough shortly before sunset, with the Queen declaring her endeavour a thorough success.

Sadly, Athos does not gain any pleasure from the knowledge that his sovereign had a lovely day. (A lovely day only slightly sobered by Aramis’ sudden turn for the reclusive.)

Athos puts his horse at the rear of the Paris-bound cavalcade, and lets the animal find its own way while he gives himself over to contemplation. The impending discussion unnerves him much more than it should. He is used to disagreeing with Aramis about … well, almost everything, after all. Thus far their differences and idiosyncrasies have never prevented them from caring about each other.

But this time it’s different. What Aramis accused him of is not only incorrect, it is _slander_ – an insult so outrageous that Athos would be within his rights to request a duel, to slap Aramis across the face and yell at him … yell at Aramis how he dares accuse him of _using_ Porthos for any kind of nefarious purpose.

As if Athos could. As if he _would_.

Strangely enough, Athos feels no desire to hit Aramis, and he does not want to yell at him either. Instead he feels hollow that Aramis would think so low of him. He understands that Aramis is angry, what he does not understand is why the sentiment seems to be so all compassing.

The fire in Aramis’ eyes while he accused him was burning brighter than any other Athos has witnessed so far. That fire worries him – worries him even more than the fact that he will shortly have to disclose to Porthos that he and Aramis have been keeping secrets of their own.

They escort the Queen and her courtiers back to the palace and then take their leave. Even Aramis is sufficiently distracted to grant his Queen nothing more than the briefest of bows, walks stiffly behind d’Artagnan out of the palace and back to their horses.

The ride to the garrison is silent. They unsaddle their horses and brush them off and then hand them over to the stable boys.

“Tavern?” d’Artagnan suggests when everyone else keeps quiet, and Athos looks at him, torn between gratefulness at him so unexpectedly taking the lead, and an inherent desire to keep him out of this mess.

Given that Athos is about to make confessions to everyone else though, it would be futile to try and keep this from d’Artagnan. Eventually, he will find out anyway, and it might be preferable to tell him the truth in Athos’ own words. Athos just hopes the boy will understand. He is not yet accustomed to the Parisian way of life. (In some respects Athos himself is not yet accustomed to the Parisian way of life.)

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, and suddenly his hand is on Athos’ elbow, grips him gently. “Tavern.”

It is where they always go, after all.

Porthos’ touch is nothing but an offer of physical comfort, nothing he wouldn’t have done before they fell into bed together, and it grounds Athos, helps him clear his head and calm his frazzled mind. They walk through the streets side by side, and although Athos is aware of Aramis’ eyes on them, he cannot bring himself to step away from Porthos and bring the proper distance between them.

Their friendship has always been one where touch and comfort were freely given; Aramis and Porthos were never shy to express their feelings towards him. It’s what unbent Athos towards them when they first met: how they drew him into their midst and welcomed him despite his frosty exterior, and simply laughed at him when he tried to keep his distance.

Athos hates what he is doing to them now, how he repays their kindness. Losing Aramis would kill him just as much as losing Porthos would.

They enter the tavern in a far more restrained fashion than they normally would, in an orderly row, one behind the other. Their subdued spirits immediately dampen the mood of the patrons already in attendance, but not for long. The volume picks up again even before they are seated, clustered around a little table in the most secluded, gloomiest corner furthest from the door.

The barmaid brings them a bottle of wine without their prompting and scurries away as soon as she gets a glimpse at their faces.

Aramis sighs. “This might be the first time my countenance has driven away a woman.”

Athos looks at him, overcome by an odd mixture of guilt and defiance. The feeling makes him speak up much sooner than he thought possible. “We did not mean to hurt you with our silence. And if it affords you any solace: Porthos wanted to tell you right away.”

“Tell him what?” d’Artagnan asks, more and more flustered by the riddle they are confronting him with. “What did you do?”

Athos looks at him, unsure how to explain. D’Artagnan was the first to find out about his past, the first one he told. In theory that should make it easier to be honest to him once more, but Athos finds that in reality it does not.

Instinctively, he looks at Porthos, who gazes back out of dark, unhappy eyes. “Shared a bed,” he says. Porthos’ voice is very quiet, but he looks relieved to be finally able to tell the truth.

At first d’Artagnan looks even more befuddled, utterly confused by Aramis’ apparent wrath about his friends doing something as innocent as sharing body heat – but then it dawns on him. It’s almost like watching a particularly fine sunrise, how the realization brightens up his face and eyes. Then he colours. Vividly.

Athos clears his throat. “Twice,” he clarifies. Possibly out of a perverted desire to see d’Artagnan flush even more. He fixes his gaze on Aramis. “I did not allow it to happen in reaction to anything you might have done, you understand me?” He is unable to keep the sharp edge out of his voice, and Aramis pales – pales even more when Porthos grunts and looks at him as well, “Nice to know you have such a high opinion of my appeal, by the way.”

D’Artagnan, visibly mortified, makes a grab for the wine bottle and starts drinking. Athos feels tempted to follow his example, but doesn’t.

At first Aramis does not say anything in answer to either of them. He seems to be folding in on himself, and Athos watches the shadows play over his expressive features while Aramis fights some internal battle none of them are privy to.

“I know,” Aramis finally says. The words come out slow, and he looks up when he realizes that they make no apparent sense. “I know that you did not do it to hurt me,” he clarifies. “I spoke in haste and anger. Please forgive me.”

Porthos immediately reaches out to put his hand over Aramis’ right, lying clenched on the table. “Alright then,” he says, easily appeased, never able to be angry at either one of them for long. But even while his thumb is gently rubbing over Aramis’ skin to declare their friendship as strong as ever, his brows draw together in a tight line, and he frowns. “Now tell me what you’ve done to get yourself into so much trouble to think Athos would want to punish you for it.”

Athos watches the regret flicker over Aramis’ face, watches him close his eyes. Aramis’ apology has softened him just as much as it has softened Porthos, and he takes a somewhat shaky breath. “Do you want me to say it?”

“… Yes,” Aramis agrees, but cannot bring himself to look at him. “Tell them.”

Athos, very aware of their surroundings, chooses his words with care. “Aramis is about to become a father,” he says, face blank and voice smooth.

For a heartbeat or two, nothing happens. Porthos looks confused and surprised, as does d’Artagnan. Then they put two and two together, and while d’Artagnan seems frozen in shock and disbelieve, Athos watches understanding take over Porthos’ features, just to be replaced by anger and a look of betrayal so livid that it frightens him. “You’ve known all this time?” Porthos asks him, and the calm manner in which he utters the question is terrifying.

Even Aramis sits up straighter, swallows uneasily a few times.

Athos knows he should have told him. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Porthos not to betray them – not to betray Aramis. He knows that Porthos would take any of their secrets to the grave. But the fewer people know, the smaller the danger. It was cold logic that made this decision for him, not his heart. Naturally, it is his heart that will suffer the consequences.

“… Yes,” Athos admits, watches Porthos pull back his hand from Aramis, watches the look of helpless regret sink deeper into Aramis’ eyes as a result.

“We couldn’t –“ Aramis tries, but Porthos lifts his hand, effectively stops him from uttering another word.

“Don’t,” he growls. “Just don’t.” He gets up from the table and _leaves_ , and Athos stares after him, feeling as if he’s being left alone on an island in the middle of a storm-ridden sea.

His gaze is fixed on Porthos’ back for as long as it remains visible to him, and once Porthos is gone, once he’s out the door and lost to him, Athos makes a grab for the bottle of wine on the table.

“I am so sorry,” he hears Aramis say. “I did not mean for this to happen.”

“I know,” Athos replies softly and fills his glass to the brim. He looks up in surprise when d’Artagnan’s chair scrapes along the wooden floor and he stands up, an expression of determination on his face.

“I’m going to check on Porthos,” he says, voice a little rough but otherwise perfectly calm. “Make sure he doesn’t kill anyone.”

He leaves as well, leaves Athos and Aramis to deal with their guilt alone.

As expected it’s Aramis who speaks up first, who squares his jaw and looks Athos straight in the eyes. “So. You and Porthos.”

Athos briefly shakes his head. His empty stare is fixed on a stain on the table. He cannot be sure whether it is wine or blood. “Not anymore I fear.”

Only now does he begin to understand what he has done. That he let Porthos in so close that he can feel him under his skin even now – just to lose him to a secret that wasn’t his to tell.

“You have little reason to worry, my dear Athos. You he’s likely to forgive,” Aramis' voice breaks into his depressing thoughts, treacherously light and unaffected. “You were merely helping to keep my, ah, _mistake_ a secret. It’s me he more than once told to keep my distance from her, that I was setting my sights too high.”

Athos looks away from the stain on the table, and quietly fills Aramis’ glass. Aramis lifts it to his lips, empties it with the quiet resolve of a man trying to drown his sorrows.

Athos would know.

They drink in silence, one bottle after another. While Athos is used to spending his evenings like this, Aramis usually stops after the first bottle in search of carnal pleasures and a warm body to spend the rest of the night with. Thus he’s drunk much sooner than Athos is, lets his head fall into the cradle of his arms on the table, black hair messily sticking up. “I should’ve just kept my mouth shut in the woods. I don’t know why I got so angry. I wish you had told me.”

Athos reaches out on impulse, puts his hand on Aramis’ head and lets his fingers stroke through his unruly hair, just like Porthos is wont to do for him.

Aramis turns his head to look at him, leans into the touch, and briefly lets his lashes flutter close. “I am so sorry, my friend. I was so afraid you might have taken Porthos away from me – and now I fear that I took him away from the both of us.” A somewhat manic light comes to life in his dark eyes. “Do you at least still love me?”

Athos assures him earnestly that he does.

Aramis’ admission has done strange things to his heart, makes it feel as though it was trying to break out of the cage of his ribs. He understands now that Aramis’ initial reaction had very little to do with anger. It was fear that drove him to say what he did. What Athos does not understand is how Aramis could ever fear that he would take Porthos away from him.

Athos could never do that, even if he tried.

A shadow falls over them, pushes his thoughts into darkness, and when Athos looks up, it’s d’Artagnan, Porthos by his side. While d’Artagnan looks mildly amused by the picture they must present to him, Porthos’ frown almost suffices to sober Athos.

Aramis is a different matter though. “Porthos!” he cheers, springs up from his chair and very unsteadily throws himself at Porthos’ chest. “You’ve returned to us!”

Porthos catches him out of instinct, lets Aramis burrow into him with an expression that gradually turns softer the more persistently Aramis tries to _build a nest inside his arms_. “You doubted that?”

Athos doesn’t say anything, keeps staring up at Porthos, head empty and heart too full. Porthos grunts and rolls his eyes. “I had a right to be angry.”

“You did,” Athos agrees. “You had every right. Still do.”

Aramis makes a happy noise of content and rubs his cheek against Porthos’ chest, causing Porthos to look down at him with fond amusement. “You will be so sorry come tomorrow morning, my friend.”

“I’m sorry now,” Aramis slurs, does not bother to lift his head away from Porthos’ chest. “I’m sorry for what I said about Athos and you. I bet you’re perfect together in bed – all hot and cold, making each other feel so good.”

Athos colours, while d’Artagnan makes a choked noise and lifts both hands as if to shield himself from Aramis’ words. He shoots Porthos a pleading look out of widened eyes. “Please tell me you can take care of them on your own.”

Porthos looks back at him with mild reproach. “You said you were alright with this.”

“I am!” d’Artagnan hastily clarifies. “But that doesn’t mean I want to listen to it happening!”

Porthos grunts. “Yeah, yeah. Go home, you poor innocent child. I’ll tell you everythin’ you need to know in excruciatin’ detail tomorrow mornin’ over breakfast. No more secrets,” he finishes gruffly.

D’Artagnan flees.

“What’s his problem?” Aramis inquires. “I was just being nice.”

Porthos turns his head to look at Athos, and Athos gets up from the table when he deciphers the message in his eyes. “Let’s bring him home.”

 

Athos and Porthos leave the tavern in similarly subdued spirits as they entered with. Aramis does not. He very generously distributes his affections between them, holding on to them both and being the most disgustingly sloppy drunk Athos has ever encountered.

“I have no memory of him ever being this bad,” he complains, one hand on Aramis’ neck to prevent them both from falling into the gutter.

“That’s because you’re usually worse,” Porthos grunts, taxed with holding Aramis up and steadying Athos as well. “But I have to admit that it’s been a while since he had this much. He usually prefers a different kind of distraction.”

Athos does not say anything in return, partially because his wits are amply occupied with steering himself as well as Aramis along the dark streets, partially because he does not yet feel comfortable again in Porthos’ company.

He is not sure that he is forgiven yet. Just because Porthos returned to them does not mean that he isn’t angry at them any more – or at least still hurt by their deception.

He merely returned to help them home like he always does, loyal and dependable as ever, even when they do not deserve it. Maybe he’ll leave once they reach Aramis’ lodgings, leave Athos to find home by himself. Athos finds that he dreads that eventuality much more than he should.

So he steps back as soon as they are through the door, watches Porthos steer Aramis towards the bed, watches him take off Aramis’ hat, and then his boots. It is the first time that he’s privy to Porthos taking care of their friend in this manner, that he witnesses him undressing Aramis down to his undergarments and putting him to bed.

Aramis lets himself be handled, is docile under Porthos’ hands, even tries to help along with the proceedings, albeit clumsily. The smile does not vanish from his face for even one second while Porthos is touching him, and when he’s lying on his back under the blanket, he reaches out to clasp his fingers around Porthos’ wrist, keeps him bent above him. “Stay.”

Athos goes hot and cold all over. He freezes in place when Porthos turns his head to look at him, cannot move. Porthos’ eyes are dark in the dim light in the room, serious and grave – and they ask him for permission. “He doesn’t like to sleep alone.”

“I know,” Athos hears himself say, voice scratchy and too thin, and then he moves closer to the bed, sits down on the opposite side from where Porthos is standing next to Aramis’ bed. A second later Aramis’ free hand has latched on to him as well, fingers clawing into the leather of his uniform jacket.

“We won’t leave you,” Athos says quietly, and watches the smile flicker to undimmed brightness in Aramis’ eyes. Athos never thought he could feel so cherished while at the same time feeling so guilty.

He watches Aramis fall asleep between them, watches his breathing even out, and when he looks up Porthos is watching him, eyes inscrutable.

“I am sorry,” Athos tells him, feels the truth of the words burn through his whole body. “It was not my secret to tell.”

“I know,” Porthos says, voice hushed, and finally sits down on the bed as well, his wrist still secure in Aramis’ grasp. “I just don’t like it when we don’t tell each other things – especially things that can get one or all of us killed.”

They both look down at Aramis then, and Athos clears his throat. “Well. We have to do better in the future – maybe lock him up somewhere when we cannot watch over him. I am sure the Captain would let us.”

“Yeah,” Porthos rumbles, and the suggestion of a smile glides briefly over his features. “He would.” He looks up at Athos, and all merriment falls from his face. “Why did he drink so much?”

Athos looks back at him, and he suddenly wishes they were closer, that he could hold on to Porthos the same way Aramis is. “He … he was afraid you were not coming back,” he says.

The look of utter disbelief stretching out over Porthos’ face is soon replaced by helpless fondness. “He’s a right idiot then. Why didn’t you tell him that I’m _always_ comin’ back?”

Athos decides to be honest. “I didn’t know you would – this time.”

Porthos scoffs, and Athos takes a deep breath, resolves to disclose all while he’s at it. “He also thought I had … taken you away from him.”

It may just be the first time in the entirety of their friendship that Athos sees Porthos utterly speechless. He’s seen him _quiet_ plenty of times, always content to lean back and let someone else do the talking – but equally ready to supply a witty remark or sarcastic response if necessary.

Now he seems to have nothing. Minutes go by without either of them speaking.

“I know he prefers the city,” Porthos finally says, audibly shaken up, but bravely ploughing on as is his custom. “I didn’t know a day spent in the woods would turn him into a bloody fool, though.”

“Must have been all the fresh air,” Athos whispers, and stares down at Aramis. “I am not entirely sure he’s wrong, though. I made you lie to him.”

“He made you lie to me, too. We’re all friends. It happens.”

“Porthos, I –“

Porthos interrupts him with an almost panicky noise of disgruntlement. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind again? I had to promise the Whelp to be _nice_ to you earlier. Nearly kicked him into the river.”

Athos gently removes Aramis’ fingers from his jacket then, and stands up on legs that feel entirely too weak. He is afraid of what he is about to do, but does not stop, moves forward despite the hollow pit weighing down his stomach. He steps around the bed and goes to his knees in front of Porthos, leans forward and hides his face against Porthos’ body. “What are we going to do?”

For a heartbeat or two nothing happens, and Athos is afraid that he has overstepped the line, that Porthos will push him away any second now.

Then he feels Porthos take a deep breath, and next Porthos’ hand is in his hair, stroking gently. It feels like falling, without the danger of hitting the ground, without any fear of pain or hurt attached to it. For the first time in hours Athos feels safe and protected, and he closes his eyes, lets his mind drift and his body relax.

“I thought we’d just … you know, do the usual,” Porthos rumbles above him, lets his fingertips brush over Athos’ scalp. Athos doesn’t know whether he wants to cry or simply fall asleep like this. “Look out for each other, make sure not to die … and celebrate that we’re still alive should we make it to the end of a day.”

“No,” Athos whispers, “I meant –“

“I know what you mean,” Porthos interrupts him softly. “But that’s not my decision, is it?”

Athos throws both arms around Porthos’ hips and holds on to him with all the strength remaining to him. He does not know what to say to that, has already drifted so far that he would agree to almost anything Porthos might suggest.

“Don’t you wanna get on the bed as well?” Porthos asks him eventually, after Athos has been quiet for quite some time. “Can’t be comfortable on your knees on the floor. Come on up, Aramis won’t mind.”

He gently pulls Athos off the floor and next to him on the bed, lets Athos lean into him, and puts his arm around his shoulders. “You had a wearying day. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

Athos hesitates. He does not want to let go, just wants to stay close, no matter how or where.

“I’ll stay here, don’t you worry,” Porthos tells him earnestly, lets his lips brush across his temple.

Athos immediately turns his head toward him, lifts his face like a child wanting to be kissed. He feels Porthos smile against his mouth when he takes the invitation, and then both of his arms come up, circle around his torso in a secure embrace while Porthos kisses him, open-mouthed but gentle, giving but careful.

It makes Athos weak with pleasure.

“Come on now,” Porthos whispers after a while. “Let’s get into bed.”

Athos kisses him one more time, and then he nods. He lets Porthos undress him, feels his body relax and his mind drift further the less clothing separates them from each other.

“You’ll have to cuddle up to Aramis a little bit, or we won’t fit,” Porthos says once they’re both down to their undergarments, and more or less shoves at Athos until he’s lying on his back on the mattress, far closer to Aramis than he’s used to under any kind of circumstances.

It feels strangely nice – even more so when Porthos joins him, lies down at his other side and draws him into his arms, until Aramis is little more than a comforting warmth at his back.

“Can you sleep like this?” Porthos asks him, and Athos hums, closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. His fingers brush against the bandage still covering Porthos’ chest, and the knowledge that he put it there has a strangely steadying effect on him.

Athos falls asleep safely trapped between his two friends, and barely notices when Aramis turns onto his side behind him and pushes his face into his neck, snakes one arm around his waist.

 

When Athos wakes the next morning, the sun has barely risen above the horizon. The light falling into Aramis’ window is grey and dim, proclaims a sky shrouded by clouds.

Athos feels warm – far warmer than usual – with a persistent heat at his back, and comfortable warmth at his front. His cheek is resting on someone’s chest, gently rising and falling, and he thinks he might be drunk – the warm, fuzzy way he remembers from years past, when he still drank for pleasure.

“Well this is unexpected,” Aramis’ voice cuts into his hazy mind, barely raised above a whisper, but nevertheless full of mischief and mirth. “He looks positively delightful in the morning.”

“Shht, you’re gonna wake him,” Porthos whispers back, and then there’s the touch of lips against the skin of Athos’ shoulder, and he feels Porthos shifting behind him.

Aramis huffs very, very quietly. “I have to distract myself _somehow_ from my headaches.” He sounds strangely fond, warm and thoroughly content, and Athos’ mind clears sufficiently to understand what is going on – and he promptly lifts his head off Aramis’ chest.

“Ah, thank goodness,” Aramis sighs, moves away from him and out of bed, and scurries out of the room.

“Nature calls,” Porthos chuckles into Athos’ neck, and then he kisses him there, lets his lips slowly drag down over Athos’ sleep-warm skin.

Athos, by now terribly aware of where they are and how they came to be here, feels drawn between moving away from Porthos and pressing even closer into him. He resolves to keep his eyes firmly shut until he can make that decision, hides his face in Aramis’ pillow and surrenders.

Porthos gently pushes him on his front for better access at his neck and back, starts to explore Athos’ skin with lips and fingertips.

“He’ll come back any minute now,” Athos says into the pillow, and he would be embarrassed of the breathless aspect to his voice if he weren’t so utterly content.

“I know,” Porthos murmurs back, and then his fingertips find one particular scar, and he stills, pulls away. “Athos.”

“Mhm?” Athos turns his head to the side, blinks his eyes open. “What?”

At first Athos is too far gone to notice how Porthos is breathing heavily behind him, and absent-mindedly enjoys the little puffs of air stirring the hair at his nape. But then Porthos speaks, and his words have little hooks on them, sharp and spiked with poison, “Athos, this one’s from a _whip_.”

The air freezes in Athos’ lungs as he feels Porthos sit up behind him. 

Aramis chooses this moment to return into the room, banging the door behind him, louder than strictly necessary. “Don’t stop what you’re doing on my account, gentlemen.” He must notice that something is amiss, either from Athos’ frozen demeanour or the expression on Porthos’ face, for he sobers instantly. “What’s the matter?”

Porthos ignores him in favour of finding another scar, his fingertips rough on Athos’ rapidly cooling skin. It is very possible that he has not even taken note of Aramis’ return. “How did this happen? Who did this to you?”

“Did what to him?” Aramis asks, voice suddenly sharp with worry, and he comes closer to the bed, steps behind Porthos so he can look at Athos’ back as well. “Oh,” he says, once he realizes, sounding faint. “You mean the scars.”

“Aramis, those were made by a whip!” Porthos snarls. He sounds like thunder in the mountains, offering no escape from his wrath, threatening to flood the whole valley with a tidal wave of rain.

“Yes,” Aramis says softly, apparently impervious to threatening cataclysms, “that’s what I thought.”

“You knew?” Porthos growls.

Athos wishes he were anywhere else but here. He doesn’t even know if it were only half as bad if Aramis weren’t present to witness this moment – if Porthos had been the only one to find out. As long as one of them knows, it might just as well be both. Athos cherishes them equally, and losing either one’s respect and trust would cripple what little is left of his self-esteem.

He can only hope that he will not lose them both at once to this. Can only hope, keep quiet, and wait.

Aramis doesn’t say anything in return to Porthos’ question; and then Athos feels Porthos go rigid behind him, and it’s like all the warmth in the room flees before the realization that just entered Porthos’ mind. “She did this.”

The words are not meant to hurt, Athos knows that. Porthos speaks them too warily to mean any harm. Still, Athos feels physically sick. Because Porthos sounds _horrified_ , and Athos does not know why – whether Porthos believes that it was wrong of her to hurt Athos in such a way, or wrong of Athos to let her.

“She did this to you,” Porthos says again, and he sounds so sad that Athos would do anything to comfort him, if he only knew how. “Didn’t she.”

“She?” Aramis echoes, and lets out a quiet whistle once he understands. “Oh. She.” He clears his throat. “And here I thought I was the only one with a taste for violence in a woman.”

He does not sound horrified at all. He sounds … strangely acceptant, and just a touch fascinated. Athos will never comprehend how fate could bless him with not one but two friends who see his sins and do not judge him for them.

Porthos does not seem to perceive the generosity of Aramis’ words the way Athos does. He growls, “Shut up, Aramis” and touches Athos’ shoulder, his hand so much warmer than expected. It feels scorching on Athos’ cold skin. “You want me to kick him out?”

Athos shakes his head. It is too late now. Aramis might just as well stay.

He hears Porthos inhale and exhale, deep, regular breaths that tell him how hard this discovery is on his friend. Porthos probably wishes he had never seen those scars, wishes he had not found out.

Athos knows how soft-hearted Porthos can be – has heard Aramis tease him about the tears he shed at Athos’ funeral, knowing all too well it wasn’t real, but still feeling too much.

“Did you,” he hears Porthos say, voice heavy and rough with just a hint of those tears, but all of his soft heart, “did you want her to do that to you? Did you want it? Because it’s alright if you did.”

“I …” Athos blinks his eyes open, utterly unsure of what to say. He does not know. He never particularly enjoyed the pain – endured it because she expected it from him, because she would hold and caress him afterwards if he was good. He endured it because the pain always went hand in hand with her dominating him, and he would not receive the one without the other.

“… No,” he says, very quietly, barely realizing that he is voicing it out loud. “I did not want her to.”

A heartbeat later he is in Porthos’ arms, enveloped in warmth. The sudden relief flooding him almost makes him cry, and he clings to Porthos, hides his face against his chest.

“Should … should I leave?” Aramis asks, and Athos has never heard him sound so cautious, never so worried or compassionate.

“You don’t have to,” he grinds out, and shivers when Porthos’ hand comes up to rest on his neck. “You know now. It does not make any difference.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” Aramis tells him and sits down on the bed behind Athos, puts his hand on Athos’ back, splayed wide open and warm. “My presence has always been of immense importance to your happiness – don’t you deny it.”

Athos waits for him to touch the scars – the ones she left him, each one a reminder of how complete her control over him was – but Aramis surprises him. His fingertips do not come near those scars. Instead he brushes along those he himself stitched up, the ones Athos received in battle. “Your Lady did not treat you properly,” he finally says, voice light and tipped with silver. “You’re much better off with our dear Porthos, if you ask me.”

Athos takes a deep breath. “But nobody asks you, Aramis.”

“Well,” Aramis says. “You should.”

“But only in this case,” Porthos supplies. His hand strokes gently up and down Athos’ neck, and although Athos does not understand how Porthos can treat him with so much acceptance and understanding, he does not find it in himself to be distrustful of it.

He is safe here. Safe with his friends.

They stay like this for a while, but the quiet in the room does not last long. It cannot, with Aramis present.

“How about I leave you two alone to … ah, do whatever needs to be done,” he suggests. “Meanwhile I could go and wake D’Artagnan, take him to the market to get breakfast?” He sounds almost too chipper, is clearly nervous behind the cheerful front he’s presenting. “We can meet at the garrison as usual, yes?”

“You don’t have to leave,” Athos says, forces himself to lift his head and look at Aramis over his shoulder. “It was not my intention to drive you away by telling you the truth.”

Aramis blinks at him. “Of course it wasn’t. I know that.” His eyes turn as hard and cold as black jade for a moment, and Athos knows that he’s thinking about _her_ , thinking about revenge. “I merely assumed you’d rather be alone with Porthos.” Aramis sounds a bit lost saying the words, but he finds back to himself soon enough. “And now that I know that you’d just as soon had me stay, I can leave with a light heart.” He winks at Athos, and the smile he favours him with looks wholly genuine if a bit sad. “It will probably take me a while to get the Rookie out of bed. Take your time, yes? Enjoy your morning.”

He pats Athos’ back and slowly moves off the bed, ignores Porthos’ amused snort with practised ease.

“We’re not gonna do it in your bed, Aramis.”

“That’s not at all what I was suggesting. But now that you did, my dear Porthos, let me tell you that you _can_ , should you change your mind.”

He dresses swiftly, leaving at least half of his buttons undone, and Athos sits up and fixes his gaze on him. He does not want to ask, but he will go mad if he keeps worrying about it. “Are we making you uncomfortable?”

Aramis stills, and then Athos watches his mouth twitch into a grin, the right corner at least five millimetres higher than the left. “Shall I kiss you to prove you wrong?”

Athos feels the colour rise to his cheeks, but he does not avert his gaze. “That won’t be necessary.”

“That’s what I feared,” Aramis says with a dramatic sigh, both hands on his heart. “I’ll have to seek my pleasure elsewhere.” He performs a quaint little bow, makes a grab for his hat and leaves, bangs the door close behind him. “Don’t be late, but don’t come too soon!” they hear him shout through the walls.

Porthos snorts once more and then leans forward to rest his forehead on Athos’ shoulder. They stay in this position for quite a while, with Porthos sitting behind Athos, both of them silent. When Porthos eventually speaks, his voice is low and careful. “You doin’ alright?”

“Strangely yes,” Athos says. “Waking up with Aramis must have driven me mad.”

Porthos’ throat makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and he puts his arms around Athos’ waist, lets his hands rest low on Athos’ stomach. “I’m sorry I started talkin’ about the scars. I didn’t realize –“

“I never told anyone,” Athos interrupts him. His mind is strangely peaceful – must have found solace in the eye of the storm for now. “All these years, I never said a single word, not even to my Priest. I thought I could forget – that the shame would dissipate if I was the only one who knew.”

“What shame?” Porthos asks. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“I let her whip me,” Athos says, and he cannot help how his voice turns into something sharp and cold enough to cut diamonds. “I let her tie me up and strike my skin until it bled, and I thanked her afterward.”

Porthos does not immediately say something in return. Instead, he gently pulls at Athos until he’s lying down on the bed again, his back to Porthos’ chest. Only then does he start talking.

“I heard stories, you know.” Porthos’ voice is quiet, maybe a little bit sad. “Of how slaves would come to worship their masters, how they’d stay with them out of what they thought was free will. How they were so overwhelmed by their masters’ cruelty towards them that they eventually mistook it for care and sometimes even love.” He takes a deep breath. “You wouldn’t say that they should be ashamed for that, now would you?”

“Of course not.” Athos closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of his own, tries to breathe through the nausea constricting his lungs. “But I was not her slave. I was her husband. I was a free man who _chose_ to be weak.”

Again, Porthos is quiet, collects his thoughts before he speaks. But his arm stays firm around Athos’ middle, and his warmth is all the reassurance Athos needs. He feels safe, despite their topic of conversation. He never thought that was possible.

“You trusted her,” Porthos says finally. He sounds angry, but Athos knows that the anger is not directed at him, so it almost makes him smile when Porthos growls and then immediately kisses his shoulder. “She betrayed your trust. In any way she could, from what I’m understanding.” He keeps his mouth close to Athos’ shoulder, and Athos can feel his breath on his skin, regular and even. “There’s no shame in bein’ weak for the ones you love. Take me for instance. I’m weak for you and Aramis, and for the Whelp as well. No sense in denyin’ it.”

“You wouldn’t let us whip you though,” Athos reminds him gently, instead of letting himself think too closely about Porthos’ declaration. For he knows how Porthos reacts to the topic of slavery, remembers vividly how he came at him after finding out about Bonnaire – when Athos was stupid enough to act unaffected by the atrocities Porthos had uncovered.

Porthos heaves a heavy sigh. “If I thought it necessary? I dunno, maybe I would. I’d gladly let you tie me to the bed, though, that’s for sure.”

This time Athos really does smile, feels comfortable and safe enough to turn around and press his lips to Porthos’. “Yes?”

“Yeah,” Porthos confirms, utterly earnest, just the faintest hints of a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I trust you.”

His words trickle through Athos like champagne, taste just as bitter-sweet on his tongue, make him feel light-headed and brave. He kisses Porthos again, a little harder this time, open-mouthed and almost greedy. He keeps being surprised by Porthos kissing him back without reservation or doubt, by how he just keeps on _giving_ , but by now he has almost learned to accept Porthos’ generousness without feeling unworthy of it.

So he opens his mouth and offers himself, wants to give back at least a little bit, although it could never be enough.

Porthos hums in satisfaction as his tongue takes over Athos’ mouth, and Athos can feel the answering vibrations through his chest, lighting up his whole body. He instinctively presses closer to Porthos, searching for friction, relief … contact.

When Porthos hums this time, his voice reaches such depths that Athos must stop their kiss in dire need of air, his blood tingling with pleasure and overwhelming need.

“Come ‘ere,” Porthos whispers in his ear, and Athos thinks he might develop an automatic response to these words if Porthos keeps following them up with kisses and tenderness. His hands stroke over Athos’ back, brush over all his scars indiscriminate of their origin.

His rough palms rub wide, soothing circles into Athos’ skin, especially over the more gnarly scars that never healed properly. Never before have they been touched in this fashion. She either ignored them or taunted him for allowing her to mark him in such a way.

Athos looked at them once, making use of two mirrors. It was shortly after she had (not) died – when he was still believing he’d lost his life as well as hers the moment he’d sentenced her to hang – when nothing but her locket and his scars remained to him.

He thought them beautiful, then. Or maybe not beautiful. Maybe necessary. Earned. Deserved.

Athos does not understand how he could have been so stupid. How he could not see her for who she truly was – how he could fall for her and all her traps, each one set to ensnare him and lure him deeper into her net.

Porthos stops kissing him, suddenly, draws back a little so he can look at his face. “You’re thinkin’ of somethin’ bad,” he whispers against Athos’ lips, “I can taste it.”

“My apologies,” Athos says, and he almost fails to recognize his own voice, stretched thin between a shameful past and a present too bright for him to see his own shadow.

“You wanna get up?” Porthos asks, and his body feels solid and real against Athos’; an anchor that won’t leave him, won’t let him drift away and out to sea, no matter how hard the winds are tugging at the sails. “Get ready and get some breakfast into you? Eatin’ always makes me feel better – fills up the hollow spots inside, you know?” His grin is self-depreciating and almost shy, makes Athos helpless with affection.

“Aramis told us to take our time,” he whispers, lets his own hands stroke over Porthos’ chest. He finds the bandages he himself put there and stills, looks down at where they present an appealing contrast to Porthos’ dark skin. “Does it still hurt?”

Porthos makes a little noise of disdain. “No.”

Athos smiles. “Let me look at it?”

“Sure,” Porthos agrees, again strangely docile for a man who once refused treatment despite the fact he could not see for all the blood leaking into his eyes from a split brow. “If it makes you feel better.”

“Immensely,” Athos drawls and affectionately slaps Porthos’ chest. “Sit up.”

Porthos huffs and sits up, and leans forward to brush a kiss over Athos’ mouth before Athos can even lift his hands to take off the bandages. “You alright?”

Athos hesitates for a moment before he replies, wants to be honest. So he tries to listen to himself, tries to decipher the complicated staccato rhythm his heart is performing inside his chest. “I think I’m rather close to it, yes.”

Porthos’ answering smile might just be the best thing Athos has seen in a really long time.


	6. Chapter 6

The following days pass slowly. They are filled with endless hours of patrolling the streets and special guard duty at the palace due to an anonymous threat to the King’s life – days filled with blood and sweat and the occasional fight for their lives.

They hunt an assassin along a dim alley shortly before sunset one evening, and nearly lose d’Artagnan to the trap waiting for them – are spared that fate by sheer dumb luck. The shot aimed at d’Artagnan’s head misfires, and Athos stabs the woman – not her, oh God, it’s not her – ere she can try for another one. They spend that night together, all of them, huddled around a table in a tavern until sunrise, cannot bear to leave the boy out of their sights.

Porthos takes Athos home with him, afterwards, puts him to bed while the first rays of the morning sun stream into the room. His hands are unsteady on Athos’ body, but they are warm, and they hold each other through drunken whispers of reassurance that they’re alive and well … assure each other with kisses and touches, try to forget their mortality for at least a moment.

The two days after that are comparably quiet, despite their highly strung nerves. Captain Treville recognizes that something is amiss and assigns them the more scenic parts of the city to patrol, advises them to keep a tight guard on their tempers. A ruckus with a group of Red Guards is more or less unavoidable at that point, and it helps clear the air. Porthos carries home one more scar, slightly deeper than the last one, and again he allows Athos to take care of it afterwards, keeps himself still under his ministrations. He falls to his knees in front of Athos later that night, holds on to his hips and swallows him down, while Athos buries his hands in Porthos’ curls and gives himself over to pleasure.

Tempers cool down afterwards, as does the weather. Aramis and Athos manage to get themselves hurt by something as mundane as a wagon driver losing control over his horses. They nearly get run over trying to diffuse the situation before the heavy cold bloods trample someone to death in the narrow streets, and both end up on their behinds in the dirt. Porthos is snickering when he helps them up, and very thorough in dusting-off Athos’ backside.

The adventure ends without any loss of blood, but their scrapes and bruises are truly magnificent, and Aramis keeps complaining about his tender back for the following three days.

On the fourth day he returns from the market with a special salve for his pain and a grin on his face that speaks volumes to anyone who knows him.

“What did you do?” Athos asks as Aramis sits down opposite from him at the garrison’s communal table. “What atrocity did you commit this time?”

D’Artagnan, who has accompanied Aramis to the market, sits down on Aramis’ right. He looks vaguely uncomfortable, but at the same time strangely determined. This does not bode well.

Aramis, as it has turned out, is very, _very_ supportive of the change in Athos and Porthos’ relationship. He is also not at all subtle in the way he’ll draw d’Artagnan out of the tavern with him, leaving the other two to “enjoy their evening.” At first his words caused d’Artagnan to blush, but by now the boy is used to Aramis’ teasing as well as the reason for it, and for the most part he just rolls his eyes.

The current determination on d’Artagnan’s face, and the way he crosses his arms in front of his chest is thus something to be wary of – clearly the look of a man resolute not to betray his embarrassment. Athos feels for him, he truly does. Aramis is a terrible embarrassment for them all – always has been.

To the left of them the blacksmith is busy in his alcove, and the sound of hammer on anvil rings loud through the yard.

“I brought you something from the market,” Aramis discloses once the hammering dies down to hissing noises when hot metal hits water. His smirk is firmly in place, and he’s leaning over the table and towards Athos in a way that suggests secrecy of the delicate kind. Athos hates that kind of secrecy. But still … Aramis brought him something. He does not usually do that.

Nevertheless, Athos’ merely lifts his brows and tilts his head. He won’t give Aramis the satisfaction to betray his confused emotions, trapped halfway between gratitude and annoyance. “You shouldn’t have.”

Aramis waggles his brows at him. “Ah, no need to be so shy, my dear Athos, I did it out of love.”

“Now I am even more certain that you shouldn’t have.”

Aramis laughs at him, and Porthos comes up from the stables, looking somewhat dishevelled, and with a stray piece of straw in his hair. His new steed is still giving him trouble it seems. “What’s so funny?”

“I am terrified to ask,” Athos says dryly. “Apparently, Aramis has brought me a gift.”

“That’s nice of him,” Porthos says and sits down next to Athos – close, but not too close. “What is it, then?”

“It’s something for the both of you, to be quite precise,” Aramis divulges. Next to him d’Artagnan starts to fidget, just a little. Athos decides that he does not want to know. At all.

He adopts an expression that should convey this sentiment perfectly.

But there is no stopping Aramis. He leans even further over the table separating them. “See, a new shipment came in today, very exquisite, exotic goods,” he says, and the light coming to life in his eyes is positively gleeful. “And since you are both so dear to me that I would never even consider sparing any cost or effort –“

“Will you just give it to them,” d’Artagnan cuts in, impatient and annoyed. “There’s no need for speeches.”

“Your taste for the theatrical has suffered recently, my dear d’Artagnan,” Aramis tells him, voice overwhelmingly concerned. “I should have bought you a present too, shouldn’t I?”

“I am about to kick you,” Athos warns him.

Next to him, Porthos snickers.

Aramis makes a dramatic grab for his chest, presses both hands above his heart. “You wound me.”

Athos favours him with an unimpressed glower. “Yes, as I said – I am about to.”

Porthos snickers louder.

Aramis gives up. “Oh well alright. Ungrateful lot, both of you. You used to be on my side, Porthos, I remember it clearly. I should have secured your affections while I had the chance.” He straightens and then leans to the side to make a grab for the leather satchel sitting at his feet, sets it gingerly on the table. He looks up when he notices the uneasy silence his words have left behind, and rolls his eyes. “Will you relax? It was a joke.”

Porthos clears his throat, and Athos glares at Aramis. “You’re a veritable jester. We should get you the proper hat.”

Porthos’ hand finds his thigh under the table and squeezes gently. Athos sighs and relents, and leans towards him, closer to his warmth.

“I’ll tell you about the state of my affections as soon as I’ve seen that present of yours,” Porthos tells Aramis, while his hand glides higher on Athos’ thigh. “Right now they’re rather … fixated.”

Aramis grins, d’Artagnan murmurs a quiet curse, and Athos briefly closes his eyes in pleasure. Then Porthos takes his hand away, leans both arms on the table and levels an inviting grin at Aramis. “Lets see it, then.”

Aramis smiles back and reaches into the satchel, pulls out a little bottle, and hands it over to Porthos with a flourish. “There you go.”

Porthos takes the bottle from him and looks at it, and his eyes go round. “That must have cost you a lot.”

Aramis shrugs his shoulders. “It was worth it.” His eyes turn soft for a moment as he lets them drift between Porthos and Athos, and then he grins again, bright and devious. “I just hope you’ll make good use of it.”

Porthos chuckles, but doesn’t say anything. He carefully gives the bottle to Athos, who looks at it in puzzlement. “What is it?”

Beside him, he feels Porthos go rigid. Aramis stares at him in amazement – even d’Artagnan looks surprised.

D’Artagnan is also the first one to find his voice. “It’s scented oil. For when you – you know …” He lowers his voice into a whisper. “For when men want to –“

Athos clears his throat and gives the bottle back to Porthos. “I see.”

Aramis blinks at him. “You never have -?” His eyes widen. “You never _have_ – mon Dieu – _never_?”

His evident disbelief makes Athos very uncomfortable, and he swallows, stares down at the wooden table between them. “No.”

“And that’s alright,” Porthos grumbles next to him. “Isn’t it, Aramis?”

“Of course!” Aramis hastens to agree. Athos can only imagine how hard Porthos glared at him to make that happen.

“Just for the record,” d’Artagnan chimes in. “I haven’t either. _Never_.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing out on!” Aramis says, voice insistently light, and then he gets up, puts his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and pulls him with him. “Let me tell you all about it!”

D’Artagnan makes a pathetic noise of refusal, but he walks with Aramis towards the armoury – away from the table.

Porthos carefully clears his throat once they’re out of earshot. “He’s an idiot. But he means well.”

“I know,” Athos says, staring down at the table. It’s not like he does not know how it works. He is aware of the … logistics, has thought about it frequently during the weeks that passed since he first fell into bed with Porthos.

“You alright?” Porthos asks him carefully, and Athos … is not entirely sure. He certainly _wants_ to be.

“You know we don’t have to, if you don’t wanna,” he hears Porthos say. “We can just keep doin’ what we’re doin’ now, there’s no need to … eh … do more.”

Athos squeezes his eyes shut. He knows that Porthos means it, that he would never force him. But now that the door has been opened, and they got a glimpse at something different, Athos cannot be sure that Porthos will remain … satisfied with what they have now.

The worst of it, Athos thinks, is that he would probably enjoy it – enjoy it like he enjoyed her tying him up and whipping him, like he enjoyed kneeling at her feet, her fingers gripping his hair so tightly that his scalp burned. The pleasure she offered so often came accompanied by pain, and he knows that he could learn to like, and then to love this as well. He is by now familiar with his penchant for surrender, has almost accepted it as a part of himself. Almost.

“You’re doin’ that thing again where you dig yourself a hole to drown inside your own head, aren’t you?” Porthos rumbles next to him. “Wanna tell me why?”

Athos’ lips quirk into a self-depreciating smile. “Because I can?”

Porthos huffs, and pats him on the back, just a little too forcefully. “Stop it, alright? We’ll make use of Aramis’ gift whenever we’re ready – if at all. And just believe you me when I tell you that we don’t need to – ever.” He grunts. “You heard the Whelp: He’s quite happy without it.”

Athos snorts out something akin to a laugh, and turns his head to look at Porthos. Porthos gazes back out of soft, dark eyes, and eventually smiles at him. “We good?”

“Yes,” Athos nods. “We are.”

 

Captain Treville sends them out on yet another attempted-murder investigation soon after, and Athos loses himself in the chase, focuses solely on his mission instead of his doubts concerning impending sexual deviances.

Once the culprit is apprehended and deemed innocent after careful consideration, Athos goes to report back at the garrison. Porthos accompanies him while d’Artagnan and Aramis go … Athos is not sure what their plan is. He does not ask them, merely bids them adieu and takes off down the street. It is not very late in the day yet, but he is exhausted, does not even feel the need or desire to go to the tavern once he has fulfilled his duty for today.

So he reports to the Captain, very aware of Porthos’ presence behind him, and then prepares to go home, possibly alone. He is not sure.

Porthos stays at his elbow as he exits the garrison, follows him out into the streets, and suddenly clears his throat, somewhat nervous. “So. You want me to … mind my own business tonight?”

His nervousness is catching, and Athos clears his throat as well, turns around to look at him. “Not necessarily. If you want to, you can –“

“Yeah,” Porthos interrupts him. “Always.”

Athos immediately feels lighter, his bones more at home in his body. “Your place, then?”

Porthos grins. “Bigger bed, eh?”

“Just that,” Athos agrees and smiles, slightly tilting his head in admission.

They turn around as one and take off down the street towards Porthos’ lodgings, with Porthos walking just close enough to Athos to constantly brush up against him while they navigate the tight Parisian alleys.

Once they’ve reached their destination, Porthos closes the door behind them and takes off his hat, deposits it by the window. The light falling into the room is already turning grey. “There’s somethin’ I need to ask you,” Porthos says, seems to be ill at ease all of a sudden. “About … eh … about Aramis’ present – well not really about the present, it just made me think –“

Athos stops moving for a second, his hand halfway to his own hat, and he frowns. “By all means: ask.”

Porthos bites his lip and his brows draw together in a tight line. Athos remembers that face from when they first met – when Porthos expected Athos to treat him a certain way because of his upbringing. When Porthos thought Athos would look down on him for being raised on the streets … for being who he is. Athos does not like that expression, not at all. He studies it intently, waits for Porthos to speak, and is relieved (if not entirely at ease yet) when the menacing aspect in Porthos’ features is softened by uncertainty, and he clears his throat. “Are you still ashamed of … of bein' with me?”

Athos’ eyes go wide and round in surprise, and his mind empties – clear thoughts fleeing it like startled bats would flee a cave. His body feels rooted to the ground. For a few precious seconds he does not know what to do, or how to react – then he throws his hat off and makes his way over to Porthos, grips he front of Porthos’ uniform with both hands and holds on to him … needs the contact like a man lost at sea needs driftwood, something to cling to.

“I was never ashamed of _you_ , you hear?” Athos dry-swallows, licks his lips. His heart is doing something rather frantic inside his chest, something far more complicated than mere _beating_. He is very accustomed to feeling guilt, but not like this, never like this. This is entirely his fault, and he will never forgive himself if he fails to convince Porthos of the truth. “You are … you have been so good to me these last few weeks, and I can never repay you for that.”

The left corner of Porthos’ mouth twitches into an uneasy smile, and he lifts his hands to put them over Athos’, squeezes them gently. “You don’t need to pay me back – it’s not like it’s a hardship.”

Athos stares up at him, and it hurts that the smile Porthos is showing him looks so pained. “I’ll do anything you ask of me – you know that, do you not?” The words come out so softly that they are almost a whisper, barely more than a breath of air. Although Athos is afraid to say them out loud, they are, after all, the truth. It has been a long, long while since he has not been prepared to lay down his life for Porthos, to die defending him from harm – but death, he finds, has always been the easier path. Now he is prepared to live for Porthos, and most certainly all set up to strive and fulfil any and all of his wishes.

“Well, I’m not gonna ask you for somethin’ you’re not ready for,” Porthos grumbles, either completely unaware of what Athos is offering him or – and that is nearly as likely, if not far more – understanding perfectly and being a gentleman about it. “If you don’t wanna fuck me that way, that’s fine by me.”

Athos blinks up at him, surprised by Porthos’ choice of words. “Fuck you,” he echoes, colouring slightly. Up to now Athos never even considered that possibility.

Porthos blinks back at him. “Yeah,” he says, and performs a succession of fascinating facial expressions once he realizes Athos’ misconception. The concluding grin is captivatingly bashful. “It works both ways, you know.”

Athos’ fingers claw into the leather of Porthos’ uniform until the fabric starts to _keen_. “You would … let me …”

“Of course I would!” Porthos leans forward to kiss him, sloppy and overwhelmingly passionate, and Athos goes hot all over. He opens his mouth for Porthos and puts his arms around his neck, holds on to him when his knees go weak.

He no longer feels tired or exhausted. Instead his body feels _restless_ suddenly, wide awake and desperate for something to do.

Porthos breaks the kiss, panting a husky “sorry” against Athos’ lips, and Athos moans and clings to him. “Porthos …”

“It’s just,” Porthos whispers, his voice so rough and low it makes Athos shiver, “you always think you’re not good enough, or that I wouldn’t want you like you are, when it’s really blowin’ my mind that you let me near you like this at all, that I can touch you and kiss you, and make you feel good, and –“

Athos kisses him again, licks into his mouth and holds on to him for dear life. He’ll never get used to Porthos’ acceptance, to the way it feels to be pressed close to his chest. What he _is_ used to by now is his body’s need for him, the way it reacts when Porthos touches him.

Athos only allows Porthos to interrupt their kiss once more when they both run out of air, but he keeps his arms around Porthos’ neck, keeps him close. “I want,” he starts, “… I need …” And then the words won’t come any more, because he never was very good at asking – only at begging, and he does not want to beg. Not yet.

“Tell me,” Porthos whispers, and his voice is soft, suddenly, smooth and calming, “I bet I’ll really wanna do it … you just have to tell me.”

Athos takes a deep breath and stares at him, helpless and uncertain. He cannot say it, try as he might.

Porthos puts both hands on Athos back, keeps him steady, and smiles. “Shall we start with gettin’ naked? That’s always a good start, if you ask me.”

Athos is so very grateful to have this man in his life. “Yes,” he says, “let us start with that.”

They are practised at undressing each other by now, and there are few things Athos enjoys more than unlacing the front of Porthos’ shirt. He loves when the fabric falls to the side to reveal Porthos’ chest, loves to run his hands over the warm dark skin, to push them underneath the shirt’s fabric and put his right over Porthos’ heart.

“This isn’t naked,” Porthos tells him with a fond grin, his progress effectively stalled by Athos’ hands, “but I can leave the shirt on if you wanna.”

Athos is slow to detect the carefully suggestive undertone in Porthos’ voice, but once he does, he actually blushes. “That won’t be necessary.”

Porthos huffs. “Nothin’s _necessary_. I’m tryin’ to find out what you like – apart from havin’ my hands on your neck … that’s pretty obvious by now.”

“No, I …” Athos hesitates, licks his lips “… I mean yes. I rather enjoy that.”

“I know,” Porthos whispers. He lifts his hand and cups Athos’ cheek, looks down at him in that earnest way Athos never knows what to do with. “I love how you react when I touch you there – I wanna learn more ways how to do that, you know? And I … I know how she messed with you, so I … I wanna make sure that I only do stuff you’re alright with, you see?”

“… I see,” Athos says, and he’s glad that his hand is still on Porthos’ chest, directly above his heart. Feeling its steady beat beneath his palm has a marvellously soothing effect on him. He takes a fortifying breath. “I am afraid I cannot help you with … your studies.” He looks up to see a distressed frown on Porthos’ features, and hastens to be more precise, “You have to understand, I … am not familiar … with what I like.” He closes his eyes, pained to be of so little use in this matter. “There are no specific … things, I could name you, no … no …” He frowns, when he does not know how to say it, when he realizes how very childlike, possibly boorish he must sound.

“But you wanna find out?” Porthos asks him, again painfully bashful. “With me?”

Athos opens his eyes to look at him, and merely nods his head, lest his words betray him again.

Porthos’ lips quirk into a smile. “So. Shall I keep the shirt on?”

Athos tilts his head, tries to contemplate calmly instead of giving in to his embarrassment. “… No,” he says eventually, voice hoarse. “She … she often kept at least part of her clothing on, while she – while I was fully naked. I do not think that I would want that, again.” He attempts a weak smile, cannot keep the blood from rising to his cheeks. “I just like to feel your skin beneath the fabric, I suppose.”

Porthos nods, expression a strange mixture of grim and gentle. “Alright, the shirt goes.”

His determined tone of voice lends Athos the necessary strength for a proper smile. “May I be the one to take it off?”

Porthos positively beams at him. “By all means!”

Thus, Athos takes his hands off Porthos’ chest, grabs the shirt at the hem and pulls it up. His heart beats faster as soon as he gets a glimpse at Porthos' stomach, and he pulls it higher, does not dare stop ere he can lift it above Porthos’ head. He feels again like he did the first night – when Porthos took him home, and he was not drunk enough – when he felt _everything_.

But this time, instead of waiting to be touched, he moves of his own accord, is not afraid of Porthos’ reaction. So he lets his hair fall into his face as he leans forward to press a kiss to Porthos’ chest, to graze one of his many scars with his lips, as he lets the shirt drop to the floor unheeded.

He closes his eyes when Porthos lifts his hands and buries them in his hair, takes a deep breath. “This I enjoy, too.”

“Alright …” Athos can hear how pleased Porthos is, can hear the satisfied smile in the one word, and the resulting shiver running along his spine has him bite his bottom lip to hold back a moan.

He was always eager to please her, never felt better than when she praised him in return. But praise is a reward and thus something he could never ask for – he needs to _work_ for it, cannot simply cheat the words out of Porthos.

So he merely kisses Porthos chest again, takes a deep breath and re-opens his eyes.

“Can I get you naked now?” Porthos asks him, and he sounds entirely sure of himself, as relaxed and at ease as he was the first time. It does things to Athos, that tone of voice – makes him feel safe.

“Yes, please,” he says.

He hears Porthos take a sharp breath, and next Porthos resumes undressing him, rids him of his shirt, his boots – pushes him backward to the bed and onto it to accomplish that feat.

Athos falls half onto his back, rests his weight on his elbows and looks up at Porthos, trying not to give in too soon, trying to keep a clear head. But when Porthos leans over his lap to unlace his trousers, when his knuckles brush against Athos’ groin, he has to bite his lip again. The need to surrender is overwhelming, to offer himself and everything he is for Porthos to do with as he pleases.

It has been so long since he’s been properly taken in hand.

“You have that look on your face …” Porthos murmurs, and Athos lifts his chin in reaction, cannot stop himself. His chest is heaving under laboured breaths, and when Porthos deliberately presses the back of his hand to his hardening cock, a moan leaves Athos’ throat unhindered.

“Tell me what you need me to do.” Porthos’ voice is rough, hard and commanding, allows no argument. Even while on his knees he seems to Athos even taller than usual, filled to the brim with a dark light that spills from his eyes and casts them both in shadow.

Athos’ body reacts to it, flushes with heat, and then he hears his own voice, breathless and desperate, “Use me.”

“Use you like _what_?” Porthos growls, turns his hand around and cups Athos through the fabric of his trousers.

It makes Athos arch, and he moans again, cannot stop the words from spilling out. “Like I’m yours to command – yours to … to toy with …”

For a heartbeat or two, nothing happens. And then Porthos rises, leans over Athos with his whole body, one hand still between Athos’ legs while the other is next to Athos’ head on the mattress, holding Porthos up. His presence blocks out everything else in the room. “But you _are_ , aren’t you?” He looks Athos in the eyes, calm and steady, and in complete control. “You’ll do whatever I ask – you said so yourself.”

He doesn’t sound menacing so much as utterly _certain_. There is suddenly a calm poise to him that reaches right into Athos’ chest, into the dark and soiled place where his heart sits, and takes away all his self-control. “Yes,” he whispers, pushes up against Porthos’ hand, rubs up against him with desperate neediness, “yes, I’m yours, I’m yours. I’ll do anything.”

“Alright.” Abruptly, the old Porthos is back, gentle and comfortingly human. “You _really_ like me takin’ control.”

Athos stares up at him, and at first he does not understand what is happening. He can do nothing but pant as realization sinks into his bones, and his face must betray his distress, for Porthos leans down to kiss his temple, infinitely tender. “I did not mean to take you out of it. You want me to go on?”

“Please – please do,” Athos whispers, eyes closed, as his heart slows to a low, seductive drumming in his chest.

“I’ll be good to you, don’t you worry,” Porthos promises him, voice rough and warm – and then he straightens to stand, looks down at Athos with dark, commanding eyes. “Sit up.”

Athos struggles to obey, brief interlude already forgotten, and he’s hard now, hot and leaking inside his undergarments, feels flushed and feverish after a mere glimpse at what Porthos could do to him.

“I remember how you liked suckin’ my cock,” Porthos says above him, and the words wash over Athos like warm water, pull at him like the tide. “You wanna do that again, don’t you?”

Athos looks up at him from his sitting position on the bed. It is a low construction, brings his head level with Porthos’ groin, and he has to crane his neck to make eye-contact. His throat is too dry for words, so all he does is nod – but it is sufficient assent for Porthos. A little smile appears in the left corner of Porthos’ mouth, and he lifts his right hand to cup Athos’ cheek. “Then make yourself useful, eh?”

Athos blinks at him once, twice, before he remembers that this is Porthos, that Porthos expects him to _act_ instead of simply keeping still and enduring what is done to him. But once he remembers, he starts to move, lifts his hands and starts to undo Porthos’ trousers. His movements are steady and precise despite his blood feeling hot enough to boil, and he does not waste any time: lets Porthos’ trousers fall to the floor to reveal and unlace his undergarments. Already he’s slightly leaning forward, and his lips are parted.

“You’re so eager,” Porthos says above him, and then his hand moves up and into Athos’ hair, grips him gently. “I really like that.” His voice is deeper than usual, a low rumble that makes Athos feel utterly weak. “Go on then, open your mouth.”

The heat in Athos’ groin twists and unravels at the words, and he obeys, licks his lips and takes the tip of Porthos’ cock into his mouth. It is not yet fully hard, but he remembers the heat and the taste, has done this more than once since their first night.

Porthos has taught him well – patiently, always gentle – and Athos learned to love it just like he imagined he would.

Porthos is still gentle now, is still patient, but the hand in Athos’ hair is more commanding than usual, a steady reminder of who is in charge. “Good, that’s good,” Porthos says when Athos opens his mouth wider to take him deeper, when he uses his hands and lips and tongue to pleasure him. Athos feels him swell inside his mouth. “You’re doin’ so good.”

His thumb rubs back and forth across Athos’ temple, rough and warm, and Athos moans, goes too deep too fast and chokes – but doesn’t stop. He likes the burning sensation in his throat, loves the lack of air and the way his lungs start to constrict in panic while his mind drifts, entirely at peace.

So he whines when Porthos grabs his hair a little tighter and pulls him off, looks pleadingly up at him. “Please … please let me …”

He did not mean to beg, but now that he did, it does not matter. His voice does not sound like him anyway.

“Oh, I’m gonna let you,” Porthos says. “You like it rough, eh?”

“Yes,” Athos admits immediately, is too focused on the need eating away at him from inside to be ashamed. “Yes, yes I like it.”

Porthos’ eyes are dark in the descending gloom of dusk falling into the room. Athos barely remembers where they are, but with Porthos so close, he does not need to.

“Alright.” For a brief moment, Porthos’ teeth flash white in a smile. “Then I’m gonna give it to you rough. Can you keep still for me?”

“Yes,” Athos says again, eyes wide and grateful while the fingers of his left press into Porthos’ skin hard enough to leave marks. “Yes, I will – I will be good.”

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos whispers, and he sounds strangely overcome for a moment. His fingers brush through Athos’ hair, tender, almost loving. “Hold on to me with both hands. Pinch me if you need me to stop.”

Athos closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, licks his lips.

“I mean it,” Porthos rumbles above him. “You promise me right now that you’ll let me know when it gets too much, alright?”

“I promise,” Athos whispers, feels as if the words come from somewhere far away, cannot taste them coming out of his mouth. He never had to make such a promise before – was never offered the opportunity.

“Good,” Porthos says, and again his fingers glide through Athos’ hair, again he caresses him. “Open up, then.”

Athos obeys immediately, lets his mouth fall open. He does not close his eyes, wants to see, wants to focus on Porthos instead of the shadows hiding inside his own mind.

“Good,” Porthos murmurs and then he slowly pushes forward and into Athos’ mouth. “You’re so good … yeah, that’s it …”

He fills Athos’ mouth, slowly and steadily, is looking down at him with a dedicated focus that reminds Athos of his expression while he’s reading – teaching himself. Athos always admired that side of him, felt privileged that Porthos granted him the favour to witness it. To be on the receiving end of just that look is a peculiar experience, makes him feel cherished and secure and deliciously flustered.

Athos looks back at Porthos with silent gratefulness, relaxes his jaw, and opens his mouth wider and wider, relishes in the taste and smell overwhelming his senses.

“You’re doin’ good,” Porthos tells him, and Athos flushes with pleasure. Porthos is holding his head with both hands now, is cradling it between his palms. Athos can feel the strength in his hands, feels the tension in Porthos’ body – feels the anticipation building up inside them both.

“I’m gonna start now,” Porthos warns him, and the gravel in his voice sends a shiver through Athos, finds a direct line to his cock. He spreads his legs, plants both his feet firmly on the ground and grabs Porthos’ hips as tightly as he dares.

Porthos smiles down at him and strokes through his hair. “You’re just perfect.”

The words envelop Athos like a cloak, glide and settle over his skin like silk, and then Porthos _moves_ and starts pushing, and the world falls away.

Athos’ eyes widen, and he keeps them fixed on Porthos’ face, while Porthos uses his mouth – while Porthos’ hips snap forward, and his hands hold him steady.

Porthos makes him choke on his cock, again and again, does not let up, is rough and unforgiving and _relentless_. It makes Athos’ head spin, and his own cock curves up against his stomach in the confinement of his trousers, leaves a wet spot in the fabric of his undergarments.

Athos’ mind drifts, while spit is running down his chin, while his throat starts to feel raw, and the hands in his hair hold him with a gentle resolve that should draw him out of the experience, but instead helps him staying under.

Porthos keeps praising him; his words come as a low rumble, are dropping over his lips and directly into Athos’ drifting mind, each drop sending a warm spike of pleasure through him. He feels so _safe_. Even while he’s coughing, while his fingertips leave marks on Porthos’ hips, and liquid fire runs through his veins, he is never afraid.

Porthos is holding him. Porthos won’t let him float away.

So Athos gives in to his most basic instinct: is pliant and submissive and feels _good_ in doing so, lets arousal and lust mingle inside him until he is ready to burst.

He whines when Porthos’ movements slow, when he no longer pushes in quite so deep, does not make him choke on his thrusts anymore.

“Shh,” Porthos whispers, strokes Athos' hair and then his cheek, “you’ve been so good for me, took it so well.” Athos hears the strain in his voice, hears that he is close, and his fingers flex over Porthos’ hips. He wants to pull him in, but does not dare to.

“I wanna come on your face,” Porthos says, disrupting that idea so thoroughly that it splinters into a myriad of shining crystals. “Would you like that?”

He is speaking in that calm, confident tone of voice again – makes Athos moan around the cock in his mouth and attempt a nod. The very thought makes him squirm and want to touch himself.

“Yeah? You gonna let me go then, eh? Just a little.” There’s a smile hiding inside the words, helping Athos to allow Porthos to pull back and out of his mouth. It feels strangely empty, bereft of the warm weight on his tongue, and Athos finds himself looking up at Porthos with pleading eyes and parted lips, tip of his tongue stuck out as if in invitation.

Porthos curses, quietly and colourful, and then his left thumb pushes into Athos’ mouth – gives him something to suck on. Athos takes it greedily.

“Close your eyes,” Porthos tells him, and Athos does, lets his tongue stroke along Porthos’ callused thumb. He keeps both of his hands on Porthos’ hips, takes deep, greedy breaths now that he is once more able to.

He can hear Porthos taking himself in hand – can hear the sound of skin slapping against skin, can hear the choked noises of pleasure breaking free of Porthos’ throat.

Athos shivers violently when Porthos comes on his face, revels in the sensation for as long as it lasts – moans when Porthos whispers his name, wants to bury himself inside this feeling and never see the harsh light of day again.

Porthos’ laboured breathing sounds loud in the silence that follows, is the only noise apart from Athos’ blood drumming wildly in his ears.

“Look at you,” he hears Porthos murmur, his voice hoarse and yet strangely soft. “God, you’re a spectacular sight.”

Athos does not know if he is allowed to open his eyes yet, so he keeps them closed. He feels Porthos’ gaze on him as if he were touching him and lifts his face, covered in Porthos’ release, unashamed and hazy with arousal.

“You were wonderful,” Porthos tells him. “Looked so good with my cock in your mouth – couldn’t take my eyes of you the whole time.”

Something breaks inside Athos’ chest at the words, tears open and leaves a gaping wound that does not hurt at all – as if Porthos’ words cut out something that did not belong, something poisonous and foul.

“I’m gonna let go of you for just a moment,” Porthos says. His voice is quiet and soft, and his fingers stroke through Athos’ hair, back and forth, again and again. “There’s no need for alarm. I’ll be right back. Keep your eyes closed.”

Athos feels him let go and take his warmth away … and it is unpleasant, in a way, but not alarming at all. He still feels safe. Because Porthos _told_ him, did not simply let go and left.

Athos can hear Porthos moving in the room, can hear his bare feet on the wooden floor, can hear the splashing of water.

So he remains unmoving on the side of the bed, shoulders relaxed and fingers flexing on his thighs against the need to take himself in hand and ease his desire. His mind is still half-afloat, riding the wave of his arousal, unafraid of breaking over the turf.

Porthos returns to him soon enough, and he squats down in front of Athos, puts a gentle hand below his chin. “I’m gonna clean you up real quick, yeah? I warmed the cloth up a bit, all you have to do is keep still for me.”

Athos simply nods, and then there’s a rough cloth on his face, barely even wet anymore and almost as warm as the hand holding it. Porthos cleans him thoroughly. He takes his time, repeatedly wipes the cloth over Athos’ beard.

“There,” he says eventually. “Pretty as ever. You can open your eyes.”

Athos immediately does so, blinks his lashes a few times until he is able to focus on Porthos’ smiling face right in front of him.

“Your eyes are all black,” Porthos whispers. “God, I love when you look at me like this.” He leans forward to press his lips to Athos’, kisses him with a hungry possessiveness that sparks the fire in Athos’ veins to new peaks – has him spread his legs in desperate need to be touched.

His trousers feel rougher than usual on his skin, and even the slightest friction results in delicious bolts of pleasure spiralling out into his groin. It quickly reduces him to breathless moans – makes him beg Porthos wordlessly for more.

Because he does not want to break the kiss to beg out loud, is torn between relishing what he has and needing more. All he can do is cling to Porthos and hope that he’ll understand, that he will remember –

“Nhhm, I still need to get you naked, don’t I,” Porthos murmurs against his lips, and Athos feels him grinning, has to kiss him once more. “I got all distracted …” He moves and kisses a wet, sloppy trail down Athos’ neck and his chest, lets his hands follow a similar path, hot on Athos’ skin. They keep moving lower even when Porthos’ mouth stays in place – sucks a dark red mark into the sensitive skin just above the hem of Athos’ trousers.

Athos moans, and his own hands, searching for purchase, find their way into Porthos curls and grip them to mask their shaking. Porthos stops, suddenly, lifts his head to look at him. “Is this alright?” He sounds worried, is biting his bottom lip as if in remorse.

“Yes!” Athos assures him hastily, uses his grip on Porthos’ hair to pull him up. “Yes, it is alright … it … it feels good … “ He kisses Porthos’ left cheek and then his right, “you make me feel so good, I promise.”

Porthos’ throat produces a choked sound, but he keeps himself still, lets Athos cover his face in kisses while his hands span the width of Athos’ hips, move slowly up and down.

Athos stops, eventually, his fingers still entwined in Porthos’ curls, and now he is the one to bite his lip, to feel his cheeks flush with something that is not shame, but an emotion far more delicate – raw and vulnerable. “Please continue.”

Porthos chuckles and holds his mouth in front of Athos’, their lips a hair's width apart. “Alright. Since you’ve asked so nicely …”


	7. Chapter 7

Everything falls out of focus for a moment. Anything that is not them loses all relevance. For Porthos closes the distance between them, that little breath of air that had remained between their lips, and he kisses Athos once more.

His hands come up to cradle Athos’ head, just like he did when he was fucking Athos’ mouth. Athos does not know whether that is the reason why he moans, and his hips twitch forward, or whether it happens because the kiss itself feels so good – because the way Porthos sucks on his tongue makes him just as weak as when he is sucking on his cock.

He barely registers Porthos putting his arms around him and moving him further onto the bed. Only when Porthos is pushing him onto his back does he take a vague note of what is happening. It is of far more importance that Porthos does not take his mouth away, so all Athos does is move his hands from out of Porthos’ curls and onto his shoulders, and lets himself be kissed some more.

He does not forget his arousal, for it only grows the longer it remains unattended, but still he whines when Porthos finally takes his lips away and straightens.

“Just – just let me get you out of your trousers, eh?” Porthos sounds almost apologetic, and Athos closes his eyes and presses his head back into the mattress while Porthos pushes his fingers beneath the fabric still covering his hips.

Now that he is able to concentrate on it, he makes quick work of getting Athos naked, has him stretched out on the bed in a matter of heartbeats – and remains kneeling on the mattress beside Athos, looks down at him with liquid fire in his eyes. “How do you want me?”

Athos finds himself smiling at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I am yours to command, am I not?”

The words come as easy as the smile, although they make him go hot all over.

Porthos smiles back, and his teeth flash white. “Oh, but I told you it works both ways.” He hesitates, licks his lips, and Athos can see him contemplating a question he seems to find somewhat problematic. He’s seen that little crease between Porthos’ brows often enough to know what internal battles it hints at.

Porthos clears his throat. “Would you … would you mind if I used the oil … on myself?”

Athos looks up at him, not knowing what to say. Even in the dimming light of the room he can tell that Porthos is _blushing_ , can see the flush spread from his face down his neck and chest.

“I mean …” Porthos looks him right in the eyes, and now that he’s said it and the words are out, he seems to be more at ease, finds back to calm self-assuredness. “You don’t have to fuck me, if you don’t wanna … but I kinda wanna have you at least watchin’? … If you’re alright with it, I mean.”

Athos keeps staring at him, overwhelmed by the imagery dancing in front of his mind’s eye. And then Porthos smiles at him again, leans down to brush a kiss to his lips, soft and almost teasing. “I think you’d enjoy yourself.”

“Yes,” Athos whispers back, his voice so hoarse it does not sound like him at all. “I think so, too.”

He’s rewarded with another kiss, not teasing at all this time, and then Porthos gets up and leaves the bed, goes over to the window where he left the oil earlier. He is quick to return, kneels over Athos’ legs, his strong thighs spread wide over Athos’ body. “You want me to get you off first?” he asks, and for a moment all Athos is able to focus on is the little bottle in his hand, looking so insignificant when it is everything but.

He’s been aroused for so long now that it does not so much hurt as put him in a state of feverish helplessness. And he believes he is enjoying that state far more than he should.

“No,” he whispers, and his cock twitches at the admission of his twisted desires. “I would like you to … forbid me …”

Porthos blinks at him and then looks down at where Athos’ cock is curving up between his legs, flushed and hard and leaking. “For how long?”

Athos licks his lips. “Until I … until I beg you to let me come.”

“I can do that,” Porthos says, easily accepting as always, and then he looks around, puts the bottle down beside him. “I think I want you to sit up for this. Can you do that?”

It takes some effort from both of them, but in the end Athos is sitting up against the wall, comfortably propped up by cushion and blanket, while Porthos is once more kneeling above his lap, towering above him like a stronghold.

“Alright then,” he rumbles, puts both hands on Athos’ chest and gently strokes them up and down. “You’re not allowed to touch yourself, you hear? But me you can touch as much as you like – anywhere you like.”

His rough palms glide over Athos’ nipples, and Athos moans and arches into the touch. “Yes, I – I understand.”

“Good.” Porthos smiles at him, visibly pleased, and Athos can feel his mind starting to float again, to drift into that space between wrong and right where nothing could ever harm him.

Porthos takes his hands off his chest and reaches for the bottle of oil, and Athos watches him with rapt fascination: watches his fingers on the slender neck, and his teeth pulling out the cork.

Athos’ heart skips excitedly when Porthos covers his fingers in oil and then puts the bottle away, careful not to spill any of its valuable content. He feels his heartbeat in his throat when Porthos arches up and reaches behind himself, out of view, down between his legs.

So he watches Porthos’ face instead, the expression of careful concentration drawing his brows together, the way his mouth goes slack after a while.

He does not think he has ever had the pleasure to see something quite so … beautiful.

For a moment, Athos is so awestruck that he cannot move. He has often caught himself staring at Porthos when they were in bed together, but this expression is new. And then a sound comes over Porthos’ lips, almost like that of a creature in pain – only to morph into a sigh of pleasure with his next breath.

Athos reaches out his hands then, puts them on Porthos’ chest and lets them glide down towards his belly – rests them over the hot dark skin and the muscles twitching beneath it.

It seems like the nerve-endings in his fingertips are far more sensitive than usual, and to be able to touch Porthos in this manner, to span his hands above his stomach and feel the living heat beneath arouses Athos in a way he has never known before.

“I haven’t … done this … in a while,” Porthos explains, his voice rougher than Athos has ever heard it, coming out through clenched teeth. “It’s always … a bit … tight … the first time …”

And then he rises to his knees and twists his upper body around, and Athos thinks he might find his release from the sight alone. Porthos is all coiled-up strength in the dim light of the room, nothing but taut skin over tense muscle … and still he seems vulnerable and open, is not ashamed to show and offer himself to Athos.

Athos watches the movement of Porthos’ shoulder and arm-muscles, while he’s sitting on the bed, unmoving, while the heat in his belly rises and falls like the tide, coils like a snake ready to strike.

A steady flow of little grunts and hisses comes over Porthos’ lips, each sounding more pleased than the last, and Athos does not know for how long he does nothing more than stare, mouth slack and fingers twitching against Porthos’ belly.

“You enjoyin’ the view?” Porthos asks him after a while, voice so rough it makes Athos shiver. “Cause I’m definitely enjoyin’ myself.”

He leans forward to kiss Athos, takes possession of his mouth right away, passionate and greedy, and Athos lets him, moans and pants against his lips and finally moves his hands – starts to stroke every inch of skin he can reach.

He feels Porthos grin into the kiss, feels the resulting twitch in his cock, and then suddenly Porthos is moving closer to him, shifting forward on his lap, until he’s close enough to brush his groin against Athos’.

“How's this?” he asks, and Athos is not able to answer, can only sit there, motionless, no sound coming out of his mouth while he’s struggling not to come from the physical contact alone.

Porthos is half-hard again, feels impossibly hot against the oversensitive skin of his straining cock … a wall of heat all along Athos’ front. He is tall and strong and so powerful it is _terrifying_ , and Athos’ mind is reeling with something that is not quite panic, but not simple dread either. “Porthos,” he sobs, leans forward and presses his forehead to Porthos’ chest. “Porthos, please …”

“Shht,” Porthos murmurs softly, and his free arm comes around Athos’ shoulders, holds him carefully. “Is this you beggin’? You need me to make you come?”

Athos sags against him in sudden relief, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He remembers now – remembers that Porthos would never abuse his power, would never set him up just to watch him fail.

Porthos would never punish him for failure the way she did. Would not withhold affection or cause him pain, even if he did something forbidden, even if he found his release before he was allowed.

“No,” he whispers, and lets his breathing slow down to healthy levels, “no, not yet – forgive me.” Porthos’ arm stays around his shoulders, he keeps him close, and Athos turns his head to he can kiss Porthos’ skin. “Please forgive me …”

“Of course,” Porthos whispers back, close to his ear and very softly. “You did nothing wrong, my friend.” He lifts Athos’ head and kisses his cheek. “Would a different position suit you better? Does this make you uncomfortable?”

Athos opens his eyes to stare up at him, and then he slings both of his arms around Porthos, draws him into an embrace and holds him close. “No,” he whispers, “this is … it is very good.”

He feels Porthos take a surprised breath, but then Porthos makes himself smaller so he can return the hug, envelops Athos with all his warmth and strength. The accompanying press of his hard cock against Athos’ belly does nothing to diminish the sense of safety Athos is experiencing, it only makes it stronger, somehow.

When Porthos speaks, Athos can feel the vibrations of his voice against his ribcage. “I think it might be best if I get you off sooner rather than later, eh? Make you feel all good and relaxed – how does that sound?”

Athos folds himself into the embrace and closes his eyes once more, utterly at peace in the safe haven he found for himself. “Whatever you want … whatever pleases you most …”

“Athos,” Porthos voice sounds husky and somewhat uncertain suddenly, “would you like to fuck me? I promise you, it will feel good.”

The words tumble over his lips as if they were desperate to get out, as if they had been waiting for a way of escape, and when Porthos stops talking and closes his mouth, silence falls right after them.

Athos does not so much freeze as merely. Stop. He still feels warm, he still feels safe, he just cannot … function anymore.

It seems as if hours pass until Athos is able to coerce his thoughts and words back from the heights of blinding white light whence they have fled at Porthos’ question … at this simple, not even very surprising question. Athos is not a fool, he was waiting for it … only maybe not quite so soon. He is not even sure what he is so afraid of, apart from –

“I could not bear to hurt you.”

“Mhm, I know,” Porthos replies, voice warm and unruffled as a lake beneath a summer sky, “and you won’t. See: that’s what the oil’s for. I got myself slick and open for you – three fingers, nice and easy. You won’t hurt me at all.”

There is still some stubborn, judgemental part of Athos who condemns the idea in concert with everything else they’ve done – who condemns the very idea of lying with another man. But that part has been shrinking and turned quieter with each day and night spent in Porthos’ company and his bed. Now it’s barely louder than a fly buzzing against the window pane from outside – looking for a way in.

Athos will keep that window firmly shut.

“I want it,” he hears himself say, and he does not take it back, because it is the truth. “But you know I have never –“

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos interrupts him gently. “I know. All you gotta do is trust me to take care of you, alright? Can you do that?”

“Of course,” Athos says – immediately and without a second of doubt. “I know you will.”

“Alright,” Porthos loosens their hug and grins at him, his face betraying not a single care in the world. “Then all you do is keep still for me, yeah? I’ll do the rest.”

And with that he rises to his knees again, and stretches to reclaim the bottle of oil, opens it once more. “I’m gonna slick you up as well – try not to come.” He says it with a cheeky, playful grin, and Athos smiles back at him and then promptly whimpers when Porthos touches his cock with slick, warm fingers.

“Shht, I know,” Porthos tries to soothe him, touches him with careful concentration, gentle and as lightly as possible. “There you go – all ready.”

He puts the oil away and then he positions himself, his body-heat passing over and onto Athos, even where they do not touch. Athos can only stare at Porthos as he takes his cock in hand and lines him up. His mind has drifted so far in the building anticipation that he barely notices how Porthos’ palm feels against his oversensitive skin. When the head of his cock brushes against the ring of muscle guarding Porthos’ entry, he moans loudly, nevertheless. The anticipation is becoming overwhelming, and Athos finds that he is clinging to Porthos’ shoulders as though he’s afraid of getting lost in a storm.

He does not want to spill ere he at least knows how it feels to be inside Porthos – until he has held out long enough to experience that tight heat threatening to overturn his mind already.

“I’m gonna go down now,” Porthos warns him, and then he moves, slowly and steadily, until the head of Athos’ cock has breached him and is inside, and they are both panting, and Athos feels as though he must die from pleasure.

“You alright?” Porthos asks him from between clenched teeth, and all Athos can do is nod frantically as his skin is becoming too tight to contain his ecstasy.

“Porthos,” he moans, and then again, cannot stop himself.

Porthos resumes to move, slowly but surely, until Athos is all the way inside him, trapped by overwhelming heat. They are both shaken by tremors, and when Athos feels himself twitch inside Porthos only to feel the answering twitch in Porthos’ cock against his stomach, it nearly drives him mad.

“God, you feel good,” Porthos murmurs against his temple, his lips close enough to graze his skin, his breath hot enough to make Athos shiver. “You’re doin’ so good for me … holdin’ out so well …”

He leans back so he can look into Athos’ eyes, and Athos moans at the shifting angle, puts both of his hands on Porthos’ thighs to hold Porthos as well as himself steady.

“Yeah, that’s it, you hold on, and I’ll …” Porthos lifts up suddenly, lifts his hips until Athos is almost slipping out of him, “I’ll make you feel so good, I promise.”

And then he starts moving, and does not stop again; he sets Athos’ body on fire, reduces him to helpless whimpers and moans so loud they echo through the otherwise empty halls of Athos’ mind.

Athos has been close to his release for so long that he can taste it, is breathlessly waiting to fall over the edge with every down-thrust of Porthos’ hips … although part of him wants to hold out forever, wants this to never, ever stop.

Porthos is tight and hot around him, and every upward twist of his hips leaves Athos breathless, makes him press his fingers into Porthos’ thighs hard enough to bruise – and he does not know which is worse: the mere feeling of being inside Porthos, or _watching him move_ , watching his body rise and fall, until Athos is dizzy with desire.

He is too overwhelmed to look at Porthos’ face, so he starts to move his hands again, lets them glide over Porthos’ skin, and follows their trail with his eyes. “Yeah, that’s good,” Porthos murmurs, and he sounds so affectionate that the answering warmth in his chest leaves Athos utterly weak, “… feels so good when you touch me, come on, put ‘em … put ‘em here …” Porthos takes Athos’ hands into his own and pulls them onto his hips and then further back until they are resting on his ass, fingertips almost grazing where Athos’ cock is pushing into him.

Athos thinks this may be what going mad feels like.

“You like this?” Porthos asks him, and the miniscule note of uncertainty enveloped by pure ecstasy in his voice must be what makes Athos lose all remaining restraint.

“Yes,” he moans, and it almost sounds like a sob, “yes, you make me feel so, ah, so good …” He lifts his head to look into Porthos’ eyes. “I love it, Porthos, I love it so much.”

Porthos smiles and leans in for a kiss. It’s open-mouthed and greedy, but at the same time so devastatingly tender that Athos’ throat produces another sob. Porthos stops the movement of his hips so he can keep on kissing Athos, and the sudden lack of friction is too delicious for Athos to endure it quietly. He could never find the words to express his current state of mind – so all he can do is allow his whimpers and moans to leave his throat unrestrained.

“Mhm, alright,” Porthos whispers against his lips, swallows another of Athos’ moans. “Time for you to come, eh?” And with that he starts moving again, is suddenly so tight that Athos has trouble keeping his eyes open for the flashes of light obstructing his vision.

He falls over the edge so fast that it would frighten him were he not safely deposited in Porthos arms. He spills deep inside of Porthos, while both of his hands are clawing into Porthos’ back, holds on to him with everything he has left. He barely registers how Porthos is holding on to him in turn, how Porthos has pressed his face into the crook of his neck and is panting hot breaths of air against his sweaty skin.

Once it is over and he is spent, Athos starts to feel somewhat normal again – but the world is somehow softer, all worn edges and familiar touches, safe and peaceful and quiet – and he tilts his head to bury his face in Porthos’ curls, takes a deep breath.

“Mhm, good,” Porthos says, sounding almost as overwhelmed as Athos knows himself to be, and Athos can feel his muscles clenching around his spent cock. Porthos pulls at Athos’ right arm, and again he takes Athos’ hand into his, puts it around his hard shaft. “Now me, yeah?”

Athos is nearly too weak to nod, is still buried so deep inside Porthos that he might as well lose himself entirely; and he moves his hand up and down the hard shaft of Porthos’ cock as if he was in a trance. Porthos keeps his own hand above Athos’, entwines their fingers and controls their movement. He sets up a steady rhythm, unhurried and languid, until he tightens around Athos’ cock once more and spills as well, comes all over Athos’ chest.

If Athos were not utterly exhausted by now, it would suffice to peak his interest and arouse him to hardness again. As it is he slumps forward, rests his head on Porthos’ shoulder and attempts to catch his breath as well as his sanity.

“You did so good,” Porthos whispers next to his ear – kisses its shell, “feel so good inside of me.”

His words make Athos lift his head and look him in the eyes, give him the strength and confidence to speak. “Thank you for … for letting me.”

“Always,” Porthos replies. His eyes are soft and his voice is earnest, and Athos’ heart reacts to it as a deer sometimes does when it senses the hunter’s approach: keeps itself perfectly steady. As if it wants to be ensnared.

They remain immobile for just a moment longer, and then Porthos lifts his hand to Athos’ cheek and looks at him with eyes that are just a little clearer and sharper than before. “You alright?”

“Yes,” Athos confirms, feels his mouth pull into a smile. “Very much so.”

“Alright,” Porthos grins back, and then he moves: grits his teeth and starts to slowly rise to his knees. Athos hisses and makes a grab for his hips, and Porthos’ look of intense concentration breaks for a second. “I always hate this part.”

Then he moves higher, and Athos is sliding out of him. It is not unpleasant, merely not as tight and hot as it was before, which is of course regrettable, but nothing he could not bear.

The slant of Porthos’ brows speaks of a vague feeling of discomfort as he lowers himself over Athos' lap again, so Athos lifts his arms to soothe him, lets his hands stroke over the warm skin of Porthos’ back.

“Nh, I knew you’d be good at this,” Porthos murmurs as he lets his head hang forward and sighs.

“Are _you_ alright?” Athos asks him, suddenly worried, and Porthos brushes a kiss to his shoulder.

“’Course I am. I feel great! … But also a bit empty, you know? You were fillin’ me up so nicely, and now I miss that.”

Athos blinks over his shoulder and into the spreading darkness of the room. He did not expect … quite such an answer. “You do?”

“Nh-hm …” Porthos lets his lips glide up his shoulder and towards Athos’ neck, lets them linger over his pulse. “I do.”

Athos hugs him then, tries to give him as much warmth and comfort as Porthos has given him time and time again. His right hand rests on the small of Porthos’ back while his left moves up into his nape and combs through his hair, gentle and affectionate.

“You really are perfect,” Porthos tells him quietly, turns his head and kisses the spot first available to him which happens to be Athos’ earlobe. He huffs. “I just wish we needn’t clean up.”

His mournful tone of voice gets a little grin out of Athos, and he hugs him closer. “It is necessary, though.”

“I know,” Porthos grumbles, and lets out a deep sigh – then he moves, off Athos’ lap and then the bed.

By now it is almost too dark to keep track of him as he moves through the room, but Athos manages, follows him with his eyes while he moves as well, even if he has to force his sluggish muscles into co-operation.

“Wait, I’ll help,” Porthos says, and puts his hand on Athos’ shoulder to pull him fully upright. He has returned with a bowl full of water and a cloth he rubs with gentle determination over Athos’ chest.

Athos looks up at his face to make sure that he is in fact alright and steady enough to be already standing up again – and encounters a fond grin. “Worried about my wellbein’, are you?”

“Of course,” Athos replies with a grave sobriety he only feels half of. “I have become rather attached to … it.”

Porthos winks at him. “Knew you would.” He rinses the cloth, and then he reaches back and between his legs again, and Athos –

“Let me.” Porthos stills and lifts his left brow, and Athos clears his throat. “Please.”

Porthos does not say anything. He simply puts the bowl on the bed, hands Athos the cloth and turns around. He keeps still when Athos puts his left hand on his hip, does not even flinch away when Athos takes the cloth firmly into his right and starts to … wipe his seed off Porthos skin. Most of it has almost dried by now, but some is still leaking out of Porthos’ hole. Athos bites his lip and works as calm and diligently as he can. Because if he does not, he will hide his face against Porthos’ back and beg him for forgiveness … or maybe he will break down and lick him clean, use his tongue instead of the cloth and take the final step towards utter degradation.

“That should do it,” Porthos says eventually, stills Athos’ hand when it moves to rinse the cloth for the fifth time. “I’m clean now.”

The cloth slips from Athos’ fingers and into the bowl as Porthos turns fully around, and he looks down at Athos with a knowing light in his dark eyes. “Thank you.”

Athos lets his head hang and his hair fall into his face. “I think I am ruined, my friend.”

He regrets the words almost instantly, is afraid that Porthos might take them the wrong way and believe once more that Athos is ashamed of him. It is not that … never that. Athos could never be ashamed of Porthos, is not even that ashamed of what they are doing together anymore.

This is not shame. It is him being aware of a craving he will never be free from – it is the awareness that he will always be someone’s dog. At least he has found himself a master who will treat him with care and affection now. And he cannot lose that master again, does not know what he would do.

Porthos, instead of misunderstanding him, merely snorts out a noise of doubt and removes the bowl from the bed. Then he gently pushes Athos onto his back, stretches him out so he can lay down beside him. “You know what I think? I think it’s messed up how some people need to go and tell others what to do – threaten them with their soul burnin’ in hell if they don’t obey all those made-up rules. I mean, apart from murder and stealin’ and stuff, people should be allowed to do pretty much anythin’ they like.” He pauses to pull the blanket over them and tugs Athos in until he’s laying flush against his chest. “Especially since I _really_ like havin’ you in my bed. Just imagine someone comin’ up to us and tryin’ to spoil our fun. … Aramis would probably shoot them.”

His concluding words do not fully register at first, and when they do, Athos’ chest starts to shake with suppressed laughter, and he hides his face against Porthos’ neck. It has been years since his body has felt this way – since he was last breathless with mirth instead of panic or even arousal. He cannot remember when it was that he last laughed.

That conundrum should sober him, but all it does is make him even more grateful for this new life he managed to build for himself – for a new family giving him reason to smile, when he once thought he would never be able to feel anything but guilt and remorse for as long as he had to keep on living.

“I do not deserve you,” he whispers once he has his voice back under control. “I do not deserve you at all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Porthos growls. Athos finds that he has no trouble at all hearing the unwavering affection beneath that growl. “’Course we deserve each other.” He squeezes Athos a little too tightly, quite possibly on purpose. “Now go to sleep.”

Athos does not argue. It was, after all, an adventurous day.

 

Athos awakens the next morning with his head on Porthos’ chest, blearily blinking against a persistent ray of early sunlight stabbing his lids. Porthos is still fast asleep, it seems – his face slack and peaceful, and his right arm curved protectively around Athos’ torso.

Athos studies his features, lets his gaze take in everything it can, and he finds that it has a tendency to flit back and forth between the scar over Porthos’ left eye and the singular curve of his nose … Sometimes it will drop down to his mouth, as though it could not quite bring the three together to make a whole face.

So Athos lifts his head and tilts it for a proper angle, and then suddenly it’s there, Porthos’ face, brought together by the smile hiding in the bow of his lips, by the slant of his cheekbone, and the faint crinkles in the corners of his eyes that are there even while his features are at rest.

Athos thought that he could never love again – never let himself fall the way he had fallen for her. But if what he feels for Porthos is not love, then he does not know what else it could be.

Maybe he just does not know what love is. Maybe he’ll never know.

If that should be his fate, then he embraces it gladly. Because what he is feeling now is enough. It is a warm emotion, alive and strong inside his chest, much lighter than he imagined it could be.

It holds him in place without weighing him down – much like Porthos’ arm around his torso. It makes him feel safe.

Porthos chooses this moment of tender realization to stretch and peek his left eye open … and then he closes it again, follows that up with a bashful grin. “What are you doin’ starin’ at me like that?”

Athos keeps looking at him, lifts his hand from underneath the blanket to rest it on Porthos’ cheek, lets his thumb stroke back and forth over skin and beard. “You have a very … singular face,” he tells him gravely.

Porthos takes another peek at him, just the littlest bit suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That I enjoy looking at you,” Athos replies, not quite so grave any more, but instead painfully honest. “It is a good face.”

Belonging to a good man, he thinks. A good friend.

A gentle lover and a merciful master.

“Sometimes you say the weirdest things,” Porthos mumbles, and then he rolls them around, buries Athos underneath him, pins him to the bed and kisses him. 

“You have a good face, too,” he says afterward, when Athos can breathe again and has put his arms around Porthos’ waist. “’Specially when you smile.”

His words coax Athos’ lips into just that – into a smile, as soft as it is grateful. “We need to get up,” he murmurs as another ray of sunlight finds his eyes to dazzle him. “I believe we over-slept. The sun is already very persistent.”

“It always is,” Porthos grumbles back. But he does roll off of Athos, and stretches before he gets out of bed and stands. He is naked in the early morning light, unashamed and human and beautiful, and Athos looks up at him and finds that his throat is suddenly too dry for words.

Porthos winks when he finds him staring, and reaches out his hand. “Come on then, let’s get ready.”

Athos takes his hand and lets Porthos help him get out of bed.

 

They get dressed and set forth to meet d’Artagnan and Aramis at the garrison for breakfast. Aramis, to Athos’ utter and complete surprise, is already there – sitting at the table with his hat in his hands, spinning it nervously. His head downright _snaps_ up when he hears them approach, and then he’s on his feet, hat haphazardly pushed over his unruly hair. “Athos, a moment, if you please.”

Athos shares a quick glance with Porthos and then shrugs his shoulders. “Of course.”

He allows Aramis to drag him to the side and towards the blacksmith’s alcove, still devoid of its proprietor, while Porthos walks over to the stables, possibly for another try at making friends with his new steed. 

Meanwhile, Athos has ample opportunity to study the deep shadows beneath his friend’s eyes. Aramis either had a very busy night full of the kind of activity he cherishes above all else … or he did not sleep well.

“Good morning,” Athos says to him once Aramis has dragged him over to what he apparently deems a desirable spot for private conversation.

Aramis doesn’t heed him at all, takes off his hat again and starts spinning it once more. “I am so very sorry if I overstepped my boundaries yesterday,” he says urgently. “I did not mean to push you into something – I was … I was not thinking – I thought it was … that the oil was something you might … ah … need, and that you –“

“Aramis,” Athos cuts into his monologue ere the heavens give way to this unprecedented occurrence, and the whole fabric of reality ceases to exist, “it is alright.”

“You see, I merely wanted to help,” Aramis goes on, seemingly deaf to Athos’ interference. He sounds miserable with the way his words tumble over themselves, never quite finding the right ones to properly express his meaning. “Not that you and Porthos need any help with regards to your, ah, relationship. I know that Porthos – that you –“

“Aramis,” Athos says once more, and this time Aramis hears him, and stops, looks at him with wide, unhappy eyes. Athos does not know what to do with this side of his friend. He does not think he ever had to handle him while he was so thoroughly devoid of … humour.

Athos thought he would enjoy it more. Strangely enough, he misses the teasing now that it is absent. Instead of feeling any kind of vindication he is touched by Aramis’ obvious concern, by the fact that his worries apparently kept him up at least half the night.

Honesty seems to be the best road to take under these circumstances, if only to get the teasing back. “We already made use of your gift,” he tells Aramis quietly. “There is really no need for you to be so upset.”

The light coming to life in Aramis’ eyes in reaction to the confession is so bright it’s almost comical. “You did?”

Athos sighs. “Do not expect any details.”

Instead of grinning at him, Aramis smiles, soft and with a strange distance in his expression. “Of course not.”

Athos experiences a peculiar desire to hug him. “Are you quite alright, my friend?”

Aramis blinks at him. “Are you?”

Athos huffs and steps forward to sling one arm around Aramis’ shoulders and draw him in. “You really expected me to be angry, did you?”

He hears Aramis exhale and then his forehead drops onto Athos’ shoulder. “I was … hasty and didn’t think before I gave the oil to you – in public, no less!”

“Yes, well – all this is undoubtedly true,” Athos says with a dry drawl he just cannot keep contained, “but this time the consequences were not quite so unpleasant as usual.”

He hears Porthos stepping up behind them, and next his hand is on Athos’ free shoulder, gently squeezing. “What’s the matter with him?”

“He is experiencing a rare moment of repentance,” Athos informs him. “Please do not disturb it.”

“I would never,” Porthos replies – and then he moves, puts his free hand on Aramis’ shoulder and pulls him up and against his chest. “Come here, you fool.”

Aramis lets himself be handled until he is safely trapped between Athos’ and Porthos’ bodies.

“What is it then, eh?” Porthos asks. “What have you done now?”

Aramis doesn’t say anything, so Athos speaks up for him. “It is because of … yesterday. He thought his gift might have been … not in good taste after all.”

Porthos chuckles. “But you know it never works out when you start thinkin’ …”

Aramis lifts his head then, and looks at them in turn. “I don’t think I like it when you two join forces against me.”

“Not against you,” Athos corrects him softly. “For you.”

“All for one and all that,” Porthos supplies.

Aramis’ mouth twists into an involuntary smile. “Is that what this is?”

Porthos spreads his arms wider so he can draw Aramis as well as Athos closer to him. “What else?”

Aramis hesitates, and his gaze flicks towards Athos. “I embarrassed you yesterday –“

“Not for the first time,” Athos cuts in.

Aramis glares at him, “– and I’m sorry about that.” His eyes soften. “I fully expected you to be angry.”

“I was never angry,” Athos tells him honestly. “I had no reason for anger.” He turns his head to look at Porthos, feels his lips curve into a smile. “As it has turned out I have indeed more reason to be grateful.”

Porthos grins and winks at him, and when Athos looks back at Aramis, he seems to be wholly himself again. “You are sure you don’t want to share any details?” he leers.

“Entirely sure,” Athos drawls. Porthos snickers.

D’Artagnan chooses this moment to enter the yard. “What’s going on?” he inquires. “Why are we hugging?”

“To celebrate our bond!” Aramis tells him promptly. “Why else?”

D’Artagnan merely shrugs and comes up to them, his expression one of mild amusement. “That’s something to be celebrated, is it? I always thought it was more of a rope we can hang ourselves with.”

Porthos and Aramis part as one to drag him into their circle. He does not fight them very hard, and utters only the mildest of protests when he’s being hugged to within an inch of his life.

“Leave him in one piece,” Athos suggests with a smile. “We might still need him.”

D’Artagnan’s “Thank you” sounds somewhat breathless, and the boy is clutching at his own chest when they finally let go of him.

“I think we broke him,” Aramis announces happily. “I believe that means we get to keep him.”

D’Artagnan feigns indignation and pulls Aramis with him and over to the table to set up breakfast. That leaves Athos and Porthos standing shoulder to shoulder, both of them gazing over at where their friends are bickering like little boys.

“He was genuinely upset,” Athos says quietly, his gaze fixed on Aramis.

“That’s because he loves you,” Porthos tells him, simple and honest. “He cares about you.”

“I did not imagine his feelings to have reached quite … such an extent, though,” Athos replies faintly. He does not believe he deserves to be loved like this, not by Aramis, and certainly not by Porthos, who grunts and shakes his head at him.

“Then you’re just as much of a fool as he is.”

“There’s no doubt about that,” Athos murmurs, and Porthos rolls his eyes.

“Sometimes I don’t know why I’ve stayed with you two all this time. … I might just be the biggest fool of us all.” With that he takes off and walks over to Aramis and d’Artagnan … and Athos finds himself moving as well – not so much like a dog on a leash, but instead drawn towards his friends by forces as intangible as starlight brightening up the sky at night.

For that is what they are to him. They saw his darkness, and were not daunted by it. They made it their own and stuck by him, brought their brightness into his life and turned it into something worthwhile – something he could gaze at in his moments of desperation and derive hope from.

Athos joins them at the table and shares their meal with them, sits down next to Porthos and allows his friends to ply him with food – to fill up the hollow spots inside, as Porthos calls it.

There are not quite so many left now, Athos thinks. He is no longer in danger of drifting away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End ... but only until the next installment.
> 
> This wouldn't have been possible - or indeed half as decent as it is - without my dear friend [hope calaris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_calaris) working her butt off as my beta and cheering me on from the sidelines. It has been a blast - Thank you so very much!
> 
> (Your reward will be more issues for poor Athos in the next story ...)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm available on [tumblr](http://uenaina.tumblr.com/) if you need me.


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